The Ginger Malfoy
by Delancey654
Summary: Newly released from Azkaban, Draco Malfoy wants nothing more than to reunite with his secret love from Hogwarts and meet the son she bore him during the War. Hermione Granger, however, is reluctant to have anything to do with the former Death Eater who betrayed her. And why does her little boy have red hair? A unique Dramione mystery.
1. Prologue: April 18, 1998

**Warnings: explicit profanity, implicit sexual situations, alcohol use, replay of the Malfoy Manor torture scene in the prologue. This work is for fun, not profit. All recognizable characters belong to JKR. **

**A/N: This story is a revised and expanded version of my submission to the 2014 Dramione Lovefest, moderated by the brilliant RZZMG. Her impromptu beta substantially improved the story and is much appreciated. All remaining typos are my own. **

X X X

When the house elf popped into his bedroom and squeaked that young master was needed downstairs to identify three Hogwarts students who had been caught after breaking the Taboo, Draco Malfoy's first thought was, _Oh, fuck. Not Granger!_

But of course, it was Granger who had been dragged into Malfoy Manor, tied to a spectacled tosser who was arrogant enough to speak the Dark Lord's name and a ginger Weasel who was stupid enough to scream it in a fit of temper. Draco didn't know whether it was Potter or Weasley who was to blame for the Golden Trio's capture, but he would have happily _crucio'd_ both of them for putting Granger in jeopardy. Given his rotten luck, Draco reflected he probably would be ordered to torture Granger instead.

During the short walk from his suite to the drawing room, Draco had used all of his Slytherin cunning to devise a plan. The best he could come up with (which, admittedly, wasn't great) was to temporize in identifying Potter and Granger while throwing Weasley to the wolves - literally, since Greyback led the Snatchers - to be used as a distraction. Then, once Voldemort arrived, Draco would confirm the Chosen Git's identity to the Dark Lord and claim Granger as a reward.

His demented bitch of an aunt thwarted that plan, first by recognizing Granger and then by refusing Weaselbee's stupidly selfless offer to be tortured instead of the girl. Like most Slytherins, Draco was by nature a cynic and a pessimist, an outlook that had only been reinforced since the Dark Lord's return. Still, as he watched Bellatrix grab Granger by the hair and throw her to the floor, he realized this was going to be horrible even by the new standards that prevailed at Malfoy Manor.

Draco trained his eyes on the elaborately carved mantel to avoid looking at Granger sprawled on the drawing room carpet, writhing in pain under Bellatrix's wand and knife. He reminded himself that she was _just a Mudblood, nothing but a Mudblood. _That voice in his head couldn't drown out her screams, however. Draco had been inside Granger's body, inside her mind, and he knew it was going to shred him to stand by with an impassive face while his aunt tortured her until nothing was left but a mindless husk. But he wasn't a hero like Potter, to sacrifice himself in a grandly suicidal gesture.

_Inside her mind_. There was something he could do, after all. During sixth year, he had taught Granger basic Occlumency, enough to protect both of them. Her skills were decent, but Draco had stopped far short of teaching Granger everything he knew. He could get into her thoughts and memories, figure out the truth about this goblin-made sword his aunt kept going on about, and then remove Granger to the relative safety of his bedroom.

He anticipated no objection to the last, once Granger gave up whatever information she was concealing: It was well-known among Voldemort's elite that the younger Malfoy had taken Granger's virginity on the very same night he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. His aunt and father would be coldly amused when he announced he wanted another go at the Mudblood now that he had already broken her in. His mother would be appalled, but she had been a Death Eater's wife long enough to know protest was futile.

His wand was already out and in his hand - all he needed was eye contact to establish the initial mental connection. Draco stared at Granger, fighting the urge to avert his eyes as she arched her back and clawed at the rug, and willed her to look at him. She must have sensed his gaze, because in the moments while Bellatrix caught her breath before uttering another curse, Granger's honey-brown eyes met his.

Draco inhaled sharply. Over the years, he had seen Granger look at him in speculation, annoyance, triumph, anger, dislike, amusement, defiance, grudging admiration, lust and even affection. Never had he seen her expressive eyes so carefully blank. Just as he began to panic that his aunt might have already tortured her into insanity, Granger blinked and he saw the briefest glimpse of disgust and loathing before she slammed her shields back in place. Draco released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he muttered, "_Legilemens_," relieved that his stubborn Gryffindor was still fighting.

Instantly, he was reliving a beautiful summer afternoon, with the smell of sun-baked grass on the breeze. He quickly recognized the setting - it was a celebration at the Weasley hovel, on the occasion of the marriage of the eldest Weasel son to the French part-Veela who had competed in the Triwizard tournament. Draco himself had crashed the reception in a Death Eater's mask after the Ministry had fallen. From the position of the sun in Granger's memory, he guessed that Scrimgeour still had a few hours left.

Granger was looking bloody gorgeous in a strapless lilac silk dress that clung in all the right places. She was chatting animatedly with two wizards. He recognized Viktor Krum; the other wizard was a chubby ginger who looked to be a born Hufflepuff. Granger was clearly out of his league, even though she was treating him like he was one of her best friends. As for Krum, the Bulgarian blighter was standing far too close to "Herm-own-ninny," at least in Draco's opinion. Then the Weasel King came bounding up like an ill-trained Labrador, levitating four glasses and a bottle of wizarding champagne. He threw his arm around Granger's bare shoulders and exclaimed, "Everyone - let's drink a toast to Bill and Fleur!"

Draco caught himself nearly snarling at a memory until he realized what Granger was doing. She was rubbish at traditional Occlumency; he had always been able to exploit her Gryffindor feelings to find a chink in whatever walls she constructed. So his clever Mudblood had discovered that she could turn the tables and distract him by replaying her interactions with other wizards, since any strong emotion - like jealousy - was incompatible with effective Legilemency.

He focused on the ruby-encrusted sword, trying to force his way through her mind to the information he wanted. Granger pushed back, keeping him in her memory of that summer wedding reception. He watched the uncouth Weasel insist that Granger try the champagne. Draco could understand her lack of enthusiasm - _he_ had given her wizarding champagne (of a much better vintage) on the evening he had seduced her, so she was well aware of the drink's properties as an aphrodisiac. She took a few token sips during the toast and then politely excused herself. Draco followed the memory as Granger walked away from the three boys, increasing her pace as soon as she was out of their sight, but still barely making it behind a concealing hedge before she vomited onto the ground in front of an audience of gnomes.

Draco suppressed his anger at the message implicit in the memory Granger had selected, thinking instead of goblins and swords. She was still effectively keeping him out, as the next thought he picked up had nothing to do with either. Instead, it was Granger alone in a Muggle bathroom stall, sitting on the closed toilet with her head in her hands. From her clothing - a sleeveless blouse and denim shorts that gave Draco an admirable view of her tanned legs - he could tell it was still summer. In the memory, Granger flipped over what looked like a stubby white wand clutched in her hand and began swearing. "Fuck, no. Please, no. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" She threw the wand away, now sobbing. Then she turned around, yanked up the lid, and began retching into the toilet.

Granger was presently heaving the contents of her stomach onto his family's heirloom rug in reaction to the Cruciatus curse. As his mother vanished the mess with a wince and a flick of her wand, Draco wondered if Granger's present nausea had led her to show him an utterly disconnected memory. He was feeling rather ill himself, but pressed on with his attempts to penetrate Granger's mind, unsure if the frustration he felt as he did so was his own or hers.

She practically flung the next memory at him. Granger, wearing a drab pink hospital gown, was sitting on a paper-covered table when a white-coated Muggle healer walked into the room holding a clipboard. "I understand you're about seventeen weeks?" At Granger's nod, the woman continued with a slight frown. "You've left it a bit late for an initial antenatal visit."

The witch shrugged, indifferent. "I've been taking my vitamins and read some books on what to expect."

The Muggle consulted her chart. "Everything looks fine in terms of your initial blood work, other than a touch of anemia, so I'll prescribe some iron supplements. If you come back in a fortnight, we can perform the scan for any abnormalities and find out the sex, if that's something you'd like to know in advance."

"You can bring one person with you," she continued. "Maybe your mum or the baby's father?"

"My mum's out of the country and the father is . . . irresponsible. Is it all right if I bring a friend?"

"Of course," the older woman said with sympathy. "Chin up, dear." Reverting to her professional manner, she spoke briskly. "Now, if you'll just lay back, I'll do a quick exam and then we can listen to the baby's heartbeat."

Only years of training kept Draco from dropping his wand in shock and losing access to Granger's mind. He offered no resistance as she nudged him into another memory, where she was pacing restlessly outside a mean-looking tent on a cold winter night, wand at the ready. He could see her breath in the air and her now-distended belly, apparent even beneath a heavy parka. Suddenly, she doubled over and groaned, fluid gushing between her legs.

Granger, now curled in a fetal position on the drawing room floor, echoed the groan he heard in his mind as Bellatrix redoubled her efforts. Draco bit down hard on his lip as he felt an all-too-familiar burning begin in his skull and race through his extremities, and suddenly realized why his fellow Death Eaters never used the Cruciatus curse and Legilemency at the same time. The pain from a _Crucio _was mental rather than physical, which meant he inadvertently had tapped into it as he shared Granger's thoughts.

The pain was less agonizing than the typical Unforgivable cast by Bellatrix, which surprised him until he realized he was experiencing a fraction of what she was inflicting on Granger. Draco was certain he hadn't made any sound, but Narcissa's sharp blue eyes darted towards him, noting the sweat beading on his forehead and the pallor of his skin. Silently and subtly, his mother's wand moved in a pattern he had seen countless times during his childhood and adolescence when his father punished him. Draco felt a sudden wave of relief and regained enough focus to delve back into Granger's thoughts.

Even in a second-hand memory, the harshness of the hospital's fluorescent lights was enough to make him blink. Once again, Granger was wearing a drab pink hospital gown, but in this memory the fabric below her waist was damp with blood and other fluids, while her hair was matted with sweat. Her legs were splayed wide, knees in the air, with a Muggle healer at the foot of the bed, instructing her to push as she moaned and cried like an animal in a trap, echoing the Granger on the floor in front of him.

Potter was there in the hospital room, standing behind her shoulder and mumbling worthless platitudes while oh-so-bravely wincing at the death grip his best friend had on his hand. The rage that Draco felt at that sight was so strong that Granger easily could have expelled him from her mind if she hadn't wanted him to see this memory. _He_ should have been the one holding her hand, not the fucking Chosen One. And unlike Scarhead, who apparently didn't know how to use his wand to scratch his arse without Granger's assistance, Draco never would have forgotten that he was a wizard with access to spells and potions to augment what were obviously ineffective Muggle painkillers.

Granger had brought him into her memories very close to the actual birth. "Almost there, luv. I can see the head. Just a couple more pushes," the Muggle midwife coached. Draco could feel echoes of remembered pain as her contractions waxed and waned in tandem with his aunt's_ Crucio_; then a burning sensation that drew a muffled cry from Granger; and finally a tremendous sense of relief as the baby slipped from between her thighs into the midwife's waiting arms.

Draco was so caught up in Granger's memories that he barely registered Bellatrix had lowered her wand in response to Granger screaming that the sword was a fake. In her mind, there were three endless heartbeats of silence, broken by a loud squalling that reminded him of an angry cat. "A strapping boy!" the Muggle announced.

"Draco, fetch the goblin," Lucius ordered. "He can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

His father's command snapped Draco out of Granger's thoughts before he could catch more than a glimpse of the baby. He was tempted to tell him to shove off and get the goblin himself, but unwilling to take the risk that his disobedience would incite Lucius to lash out at Granger, laying prone on the floor within easy striking distance of his cane. His mother caught his eye and jerked her head imperceptibly towards the door, all the while keeping her wand trained on the young witch huddled on the rug. Draco understood her message: she would watch over Granger until he returned.

Draco quickly left the drawing room and sprinted down the cellar steps, doubtful of Narcissa's ability to keep Lucius and Bellatrix at bay for long. His voice was harsh as he called through the locked door to the prisoners. "Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don't try anything, or I'll kill you!" He needed to get back to Granger and had no time to waste on Potter's attempted heroics. Draco marched Griphook into the drawing room at wand-point and arrived, too late, to the sound of Granger's renewed screams.

"May I take over with the Mudblood, Aunt Bella, while you question the goblin?" he asked politely.

Bellatrix was always delighted when he showed initiative as a Death Eater and genially agreed as she lowered her wand. "Of course, darling, but keep her here in case I have any further questions for the filth."

Draco hid a grimace as Granger looked at him in shocked betrayal. He pointed his wand, cast a wordless _Legilemens_, and then a clear, confident, "_Crucio_!" Granger's screams again filled the room.

He rummaged through her thoughts, one question paramount in his mind. _Where is the baby?_ _Show me the baby, Granger. _She was too exhausted, physically and mentally, to hold out much longer, and he quickly was able to grasp a clear mental image of Granger sitting up in a hospital bed, looking down at the swaddled baby cradled in her arms. Draco marveled at the translucent eyelashes and tight grip the newborn had on his mother's finger. The white-blond Malfoy hair was hidden beneath a soft knit cap, but he was transfixed by the blue-grey eyes peering up at Granger. Minutes passed until, with a start, he realized that the witch had again succeeded in distracting him.

He focused his thoughts. _Where is he now, Granger? _She bombarded him with disjointed images that made no sense: his mother as a young woman preening on a moth-eaten tapestry, Ginny Weasley laughing at a witch who had a pig snout instead of a nose, Potter shooting hexes while flying on a broomstick behind a dark-skinned wizard in bright African garb. He forced his way past them to a memory of Granger and Potter walking up a stone path to a modest but well-tended home with yellow stucco walls and dark green shutters. Granger was holding the sleeping baby in her arms, and Draco noted approvingly that she had him well-bundled against the cold in a hooded blue snowsuit. Just as Potter raised his hand to knock on the front door, his aunt pressed down on his wand hand and broke the connection.

"That's enough, Draco dear," she crooned. Granger's screams cut off and she curled onto her side, eyes shut as though she was barely clinging to consciousness. "You'll want to leave a bite or two for Greyback."

Draco's protest was cut off by Weasley's shouting as he and Potter burst into the room in a typically reckless and poorly planned rescue attempt by the Boy Who Lived At The Expense Of Others. Once they had been disarmed, Draco closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his aunt slit Granger's throat.

He snapped them open as the drawing room chandelier crashed to the ground on top of Granger. His strangled cry was drowned out by a loud crack as the Weasel grabbed her limp, bleeding body and Apparated away.

Draco, with blood and tears on his face, was left standing amidst the crystal wreckage of something that had once been beautiful, wondering if that was an apt metaphor for his life.


	2. Chapter 1: September 27, 2002

Hermione hurried from the Burrow's Apparition point, added as a security measure after the War, as quickly as sensible heels and a pencil skirt would permit. She glanced at her wristwatch and silently cursed Egbert, her department head, for calling a meeting at half-four on a Friday afternoon. She honestly had no idea how Muggle mothers managed it. She could Apparate from London to Devon in a few seconds, yet she was late to pick up Reg from Molly or Andromeda Tonks, who minded him on alternate days, at least once a week.

Ginny flung open the door before she could knock. "Hermione! How are you!" The redhead hugged her as enthusiastically as her protruding abdomen would allow.

Hermione laughingly protested the tight grip. "Ginny, I saw you just last week."

"I know, for your birthday party and housewarming, but you've only been back for two months and before that you were in Australia for _four whole years_! I have a lot of hugs to catch up on."

"Me, too," said Harry, rising from the sofa to greet Hermione, while Ron smiled awkwardly from his seat on the sofa. He was still adjusting to her insistence that they would always be friends, but nothing more. She might have forgiven him, but Hermione would never forget that Ron had abandoned her when she told him she was pregnant and who the father was.

"How are you feeling, Gin?" Hermione asked solicitously.

"Oh, you know," the redhead shrugged. "I'm as big as a house, my ankles are the size of Bludgers, and I still have two months to go before I have a baby to show for it."

"Did you see today's _Prophet_?" Ron asked abruptly, grabbing the newspaper and waving it in her direction. "The Ferret was granted parole after the MLE decided not to oppose his petition. He's being released from Azkaban tomorrow." He glared accusingly at Harry, who had become an Auror within weeks of defeating Voldemort, as though he were personally at fault for the ministry's decision.

"The Aurors did a full review of Malfoy's War record, behavior in prison, and the cooperation he's provided in apprehending other Death Eaters. There wasn't any good reason to keep him in prison once he became eligible for parole," Harry explained apologetically.

Hermione glanced at the newspaper article, accompanied by a photo of a teenage Malfoy embracing his mother on the platform at King's Cross. "It's all right, Harry. I knew he wasn't going to be in prison forever."

"Do you think he'll try to see you and Reg?" Ginny asked with concern.

"Maybe, but I expect he'll lose interest quickly. You know, rich boys and their toys." Hermione replied with false casualness. Ever since that awful day at Malfoy Manor, she had worried that Malfoy would try to take Reg away from her. And, being Hermione Granger, she had studied and planned to prevent that.

"I dunno, Hermione," Harry said doubtfully. "Every time I've seen Malfoy in Azkaban, he's asked about you."

"You haven't answered, have you?" Hermione asked dangerously.

"You know I _can't_ tell him anything! I just said that you were safe," Harry reassured her. "He was really worried about you. And after his trial, he practically made me swear a wand oath that I'd tell you about the trust vault at Gringott's."

"You have a trust vault?" Ron yelped. "Blimey, Hermione, that's at least a hundred thousand Galleons! No wonder you could afford to buy a house."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "For your information, _Ronald_, I don't have a trust vault. Reg has a vault, of which I am the trustee, and I can assure you that whatever amount Malfoy put in there, neither of us have taken a single Knut! I was able to afford a house because no other wizard wanted to buy a property that had previously belonged to a Muggle-born."

"Oh, come on, 'Mione! You can't tell me that the goblins didn't know about that trust vault when they gave you a mortgage. And it's only a few stuffy old pure-bloods who would turn down a house because of the owner's blood status. It's just that old Cresswell set up his wards to curse any member of the old pure-blood families."

"Of course, Ronald. Because such awful things happened to you and Neville and Hannah when you were over last weekend." Hermione rolled her eyes. "I can't believe you'd be so gullible as to believe a rumor like that. It's just nonsense that was probably put out by some rival estate agent."

With long practice, Harry intervened before their squabble escalated any further. "Come on, let's head out back. Molly made ham and cheddar pie, and I know Reg was asking for you, 'Mione."

The mention of food had Ron off the sofa and out the door, with Hermione hurrying after him to see her son.

A bright-haired blur raced up as soon as Hermione stepped into the back garden. "Mummy! It's mummy!" the little boy announced with excitement, hugging her legs.

Hermione reached down to give him a kiss on the top of his head. "What did you and Victoire do today, Reg?" she asked.

"We climbed trees!" he answered enthusiastically.

"What have I told you about climbing trees?" his mother asked with mock sternness.

"Don't fall!" he answered gleefully, with a mischievous smirk that tugged at her heart, and then raced away to greet Harry and Ginny.

Molly Weasley turned from setting the table with a warm smile. "Hermione, dear, it's lovely to see you."

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley. I'm so sorry I'm late." Hermione grabbed some place settings and began helping the woman who, years before, she had hoped would one day be her mother-in-law.

The older woman waved aside the apology. "It's fine, dear. I got your Patronus. Besides, I know how those goblins are. Fleur tells me that Bill is almost never home before six. Will you be staying for dinner?"

"I wouldn't want to impose," Hermione answered hesitantly.

"Nonsense! You and Reg are like family and there's plenty of food for everyone. George and Angelina will be here with Freddy once they close up the shop. I know you haven't had a chance to see them since you've been back," Mrs. Weasley coaxed.

"I would like to see them," Hermione agreed thoughtfully. Particularly Freddy, whom she had not yet had the chance to meet, but who was reputed to be as much of a hellion as his deceased uncle and namesake.

Freddy proved to be a rambunctious, engaging two-year-old, big for his age. Hermione happily exercised an aunt's prerogative to hug him and ruffle his hair, even as he squealed that she was pulling it. After feasting on Molly's savory pie and strawberry ice cream, the two little boys spent the evening tearing around the garden and terrorizing the gnomes while the adults caught up over Butterbeer. Hermione was reminded of pre-War dinners, when the Burrow's warmth and the laughter of family and friends had managed to push back the gathering darkness.

At the end of night, when she scooped a sticky and grumbling Reg to Apparate home for his bath and bed, she knew they were ready for whatever tomorrow might bring.

X X X

A few hours later and several hundred miles to the north and west, on a rocky promontory in the North Sea, a blond wizard was taking inventory of the personal possessions in his prison cell, deciding what to take and what to leave behind. Draco Malfoy intended to leave Azkaban at midnight, the very minute his grant of parole went into effect.

With the Dementors replaced by venal human guards, an inmate could live well enough in Azkaban if he were sufficiently wealthy - and Draco was insanely wealthy - but prison itself was still a soul-sucking experience. Draco could understand why Lucius had killed himself rather than spend the rest of his sorry life in Azkaban.

The guard on duty tonight, eager to curry favor with the heir to the vast Malfoy fortune, had obligingly delivered a small suitcase from Narcissa. For the first time in years, Draco was wearing soft wool and expensive cotton instead of an Azkaban-issued jumpsuit, and he reveled in the sensuous touch of fabric on his skin as he tightened the dragon-hide belt around his waist and slipped on hand-made dragon leather shoes. Draco doubted that the _Daily Prophet _would have any photographers on duty in the middle of the night to capture his image as he emerged from Azkaban, but if they did, he would look like a Malfoy rather than an inmate.

He carefully packed his collection of primarily Muggle novels in the small suitcase, smiling ironically at how his taste in books had been cited approvingly in the report to the parole board as evidence of a positive change in attitude. In fact, Draco had enjoyed Muggle literature ever since he'd discovered it in the Hogwarts library as an eleven-year-old, but that hadn't stopped him from taking the Dark Mark five years later. The notion that a person's reading habits could influence his behavior, for good or for ill, struck him as frankly ludicrous.

Next, he removed from the wall the cell's sole decoration - a pastoral scene of Wiltshire that he had loved as a child because of the moving farm animals - and wrapped it in a spare pillowcase before placing it on top of the books, careful not to disturb the backing. There was a possibility his personal effects would be searched before he left Azkaban, and there was a Muggle birth certificate hidden behind the frame that he would rather not have to explain.

Finally, he returned to the bed and lifted the corner of the fitted sheet, feeling for a slit in the mattress. It was a classic hiding place for contraband, and indeed had been searched several times by the prison guards. For a small bribe they had happily turned a blind eye to what appeared to be nothing more than Draco's pornography collection.

Draco whispered the password and watched as the images of scantily-clad witches in provocative poses transformed into something that was much more innocent: pictures of a mother and child taken over the last few years by a Muggle private investigator who thought he had been retained by the Malfoy family's solicitor in connection with a bitter, ongoing custody dispute.

Draco kept the charmed snapshots in chronological order, beginning with Granger pushing a chubby ten-month-old in a pram, both protected from the harsh Australian winter sun by floppy hats and dark glasses. In every picture, the boy's dark hair was blurred, the tell-tale sign of a magical glamour, presumably placed by Granger to hide the trademark Malfoy hair.

Although Draco couldn't fault a lioness for protecting her cub, he could - and did - fault her for trying to utterly cut him out of his son's life. Had it not been for a clever half-blood clerk in his solicitor's office who knew how to obtain Muggle records, Draco wouldn't even know his son's name.

And had it not been for a monumental screw-up by Potter, Draco wouldn't have known where in the world Granger had taken his son after she left England. But just before Draco's first Christmas in Azkaban, Potter had come to the prison to debrief him on the Carrows. The imbecile had somehow mixed a cheery Muggle holiday card from Granger in with his sloppily maintained Auror file. Draco had plucked the card out of the file and stared hungrily at the picture of Granger holding up a toddler in shorts and a Santa hat as he petted a kangaroo, until Potter snatched it back.

Draco had spent the next five minutes screaming at the Auror for putting Granger and a defenseless child at risk. There were plenty of Death Eaters at large, and there was no doubt she was an attractive target in every sense of the word. Years later, Draco's jaw still clenched in recollection of Potter's stupidity. However, it had enabled Draco's investigator to focus his search and find Granger in Australia a few weeks later.

Draco still could not comprehend why Granger stubbornly refused to accept any assistance he offered. Immediately after the Final Battle, Draco was taken into custody, but his solicitor had sent repeated letters on his behalf with discreetly-worded offers of support. All of the letters had been ignored. At his trial, Draco had even swallowed his pride and asked Potter to intervene with Granger, to tell her there was a trust account at Gringott's with sufficient funds to ensure she and his son wanted for nothing while Draco was serving his sentence in Azkaban. Potter, sanctimonious prick that he was, had almost certainly kept that promise, yet the account had never been touched.

Just a few months before, Draco had been beside himself when his solicitor found out from an estate agent at his firm that Granger was on the verge of signing a lease for a two-bedroom flat on the dodgy fringes of Knockturn Alley. Draco managed to scuttle that transaction by having the agent present Granger with a much more attractive property in Godric's Hollow at an absurdly low price. While it wasn't Malfoy Manor, the large walled garden and goblin-crafted wards made it an acceptable place to raise his child. He shook his head at the daft bint's stubborn determination to go it alone.

Thoughtfully, Draco examined the only wizarding photo in the stack, provided by his solicitor at last month's visit. Taken at a playground near Cresswell Cottage, it showed a little boy on a swing, with Granger reading a book on a nearby bench. His solicitor reported that mother and son visited the playground nearly every day. For the first time in what felt like years, a genuine, happy smile crossed Draco's face. Tomorrow, he would be a free man and would meet his son for the first time.


	3. Chapter 2: September 28, 2002

Saturday morning dawned crisp and sunny in the West Country, and Reg was clamoring to go to the playground as soon as he finished breakfast.

Hermione was tempted to take him to the Burrow, or Shell Cottage to play with Victoire, or Grimmauld Place for a visit with Harry or Ginny, or really anywhere in Britain where there were wards to keep away a certain freshly paroled Death Eater. But she knew from personal experience that Malfoy was sly and persistent in equal measure and eventually would force a confrontation to see Reg.

"Better to get this over with," she muttered to herself. "Remember, you're a Gryffindor." That bracing thought dredged up an unwelcome memory of shivering on Malfoy's Nimbus while he whispered cajolingly in her ear, his arms providing the illusion of security. "What's the use of being a Gryffindor if you aren't even brave? What's the use of being a witch if you won't even fly?" he had asked, ultimately persuading her to agree to an illicit moonlight broom ride at a speed of far too many kilometers per hour.

She shook her head against the treacherous recollection of wind whipping her face and Malfoy's body warm against her back. "Reg," she called with false cheerfulness, "Get your jacket and let's go."

Hermione listened with half an ear to Reg's happy chatter as he skipped towards the park, bracing herself for the inevitable encounter with Malfoy. When they arrived, she was almost disappointed not to see him. Reg raced off to play, while Hermione greeted a handful of friends and neighbors before settling onto a bench with her reading. It was a routine she had started when Reg was a toddler - she would take her textbooks to the playground near her parents' dental office in Perth and study while Reg played in the sandbox. Today, she had a folder of financial reports, courtesy of Egbert the goblin slavedriver.

Not even a half hour had passed before she heard the low rumble, similar to that of a Muggle motorcycle, that signaled a racing broom being flown at a low cruising speed. When the broom stopped at the park entrance, she tensed in preparation, not looking around but easily picturing Malfoy dismounting and nonchalantly swinging the broom over his shoulder as he sauntered into the park. Her imagination hadn't played her false; a few moments later, Malfoy sat down next to her on the park bench.

"Hullo, Granger. You're looking well," he said casually, as though he were a friend with the right to pay her a lazy compliment.

"Malfoy," she acknowledged, stone-faced. "Azkaban seems to have agreed with you." Her tone was sarcastic, but Hermione had to admit it was true. Malfoy was still lean, but he'd filled out from the gaunt seventeen-year-old she'd known. And instead of the prison pallor she'd expected, he actually had some color in his cheeks after a brisk flight from Wiltshire.

"Being out of Azkaban agrees with me," he corrected. He leaned towards her, his voice low and intense. "Before I say anything else, I need to tell you that I am sorry, more sorry than you can imagine, for what I did that night at Hogwarts and for not being able to protect you from my aunt at the Manor. Even if you hate me, please believe that I never wanted to see you hurt and did what I could to prevent that from happening." Malfoy took a breath and continued. "Will you forgive me?"

He was looking at her with soft, cloudy grey eyes, practically radiating sincerity, which told her was lying or wanted something. Or both. "I don't hate you, Malfoy," Hermione finally said.

Malfoy nodded, accepting that was all she could give at the moment. "I'm glad to hear that. And I hope we can be at least civil for our son's sake."

Hermione bit her lip. "Look, Malfoy, you need to understand - "

He cut her off. "I'm not asking you to move into Malfoy Manor or anything like that," _yet_, he mentally amended, "but you need to understand that I will be a part of his life, as I have every right to be." Now his eyes were a steely grey and his tone was implacable.

Hermione sighed. Ginny had been right, and she had been wrong. She really had underestimated how much children - even half-blooded children - mattered to the traditional wizarding families. Most Muggles his age would have been happy to shrug off their parental responsibilities, but Malfoy, possessive snake that he was, wanted to play at happy family.

Malfoy looked over her shoulder at the scrum of little boys crowded around the edge of the protective circle he had charmed around his Nimbus. "Which one is he, Granger?"

His eyes were silvery with anticipation. With a sinking feeling, Hermione realized that Malfoy was truly eager to meet Reg. She stood up and made a beckoning gesture. When dealing with Malfoy, it was easier to show than tell.

One of the boys broke away and obediently trotted over. He was slightly built, with a heart-shaped face and bright hazel eyes, wearing an orange Chudley Cannons cap that clashed horribly with his wavy hair. Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise and more than a bit of anger.

"What the fuck, Granger? He's a ginger!" exclaimed Malfoy.

"Language, Malfoy," Hermione reproved.

Unexpectedly, he laughed and crouched down to Reg's level. "Sorry about that, sprog. Your mum has a cheeky sense of humor. What's your name?"

"I'm Reg," the boy said, with the sunny confidence of a well-loved child. "Who's that?" he asked his mother in a loudly whispered aside.

"That's Mr. Malfoy. I went to school with him."

"Were you friends?" Reg asked curiously.

"Sort of, for one year," Malfoy replied, which Hermione supposed was a diplomatic answer. "You can call me Draco," he offered.

"Mr. Draco," Hermione corrected. "Now shake his hand and say 'nice to meet you.'"

Reg obediently shook Malfoy's hand and parroted his mother, breaking from the script to ask excitedly, "Is that a real Quidditch broom, Mr. Draco? Can I touch it?"

"It is a real Nimbus, though it's a bit of a later model now, a 2001. And while I ordinarily don't allow grubby, little hands anywhere near my broom," this was with a pointed look to the brats still clustered around it, "I'll make an exception for you. In fact, you can even sit on it, if you'd like."

Reg smirked triumphantly at his playmates, a look that Malfoy mirrored over his head at Hermione as Reg grabbed his hand to pull him towards the broom. She watched them carefully, doubtful that Malfoy had any experience in minding small boys, but it seemed that an enthusiastic knowledge of Quidditch was sufficient to manage her excitable son for at least a short period of time. She could hear Reg's high-pitched questions as Malfoy, with surprising patience, walked him through the broom's finer points.

As promised, Malfoy then lifted Reg to sit on the Nimbus, which he had hovering stationary a couple of feet off the ground. Hermione found herself smiling at the sheer exuberant joy on the boy's face, until Malfoy looked up and caught her eye. Her smile faded and Hermione found herself flushing. She thought their staring contest might have continued indefinitely, but for Reg's timely interruption.

"Mr. Draco, would you take me on a broom ride? Please?"

Hermione doubted that Malfoy, who had been a very spoilt child himself, would see any reason to resist Reg's plea. With a mental sigh, she prepared herself to intervene, deny her son's request, and deal with the inevitable resulting tantrum. As much as she adored Reg, there was no denying that he had a temper, inherited from both sides of his family tree.

"Absolutely not," Malfoy replied crisply. "You'd be daft to ride a broom like this without wearing a helmet. Now run along and play while I have a talk with your mother." Shockingly, Reg bowed to Malfoy's authority without protest and with only a slight pout.

Malfoy sat down beside her, slightly closer than before, with a grin on his face.

"All right, Granger. You've had your fun. Will you lift the glamor now, or will I have to do this the hard way?" he asked.

"It's not a glamor," Hermione warned.

With an exaggerated sigh, Malfoy produced his wand and pointed it Reg. "The hard way, then."

He started wordlessly with a _Finite Incantum_, and then moved through a series of increasingly complex non-verbal and verbal _Revelio_ counter-charms, including some that Hermione didn't recognize, growing visibly frustrated as nothing worked.

"What kind of fucking glamor did you use, Granger?" Malfoy growled.

"It's not a glamor," she repeated.

"It has to be a glamor," he insisted. "There's no such thing as a ginger Malfoy. All Malfoy wizards are blond."

"I know," Hermione said softly. "And all Weasleys have red hair."

Malfoy looked at her with a mix of incredulity and fury. "Don't expect me to believe you were slagging around with the Weasel King behind my back. I _know_ you weren't."

"This isn't the time or place, Malfoy," Hermione cautioned, with a meaningful look towards the playground. She knew this conversation could quickly turn ugly, and even the best-cast _Muffliato _wouldn't conceal that they were screaming at each other.

Malfoy followed her glance and agreed with a sneer that recalled the vile boy he'd been at Hogwarts. "Agreed. Name your time and place, Granger."

"Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks at half past seven."

With a sharp nod of agreement, Malfoy stalked over to his broomstick without a backwards glance.


	4. Chapter 3: September 28, 2002 - evening

A half-hour before the appointed meeting time with Malfoy, Hermione stepped through the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, Reg in tow. "Harry, Gin, thank you again for taking the little guy this evening," she greeted her friends.

Ginny winked at her. "Don't worry, Hermione. You can return the favor once I've spawned. Have fun with Malfoy!"

"I want to see Mr. Draco," Reg spoke up hopefully.

"Yeah?" Ginny asked. "Well, I want ice cream, and I happen to know there's some in the kitchen. If you hurry, I may share it!"

After they left, Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. "How did it go today?"

Hermione shrugged. "Better than expected. No one got hexed."

"It sounds like Reg liked him," Harry said, striving for a neutral tone.

"He's four," Hermione snapped. "He doesn't know about Dark Marks or Death Eaters, or his mother being tortured because of her blood status."

"You've never asked Malfoy about any of that, have you? You might be surprised by his answers."

"He's a Malfoy, Harry! He would tell me exactly what he thought I wanted to hear. I know you think he's reformed and deserves a second chance, but I've learned not to trust a single one of the pretty words that come out of his lying mouth," Hermione responded bitterly.

"Hermione, you don't have to trust him," Harry grinned, green eyes bright. He rummaged in his Auror kit and handed her a small vial of clear liquid. "Use it well."

X X X

At quarter after seven, Draco walked into the Three Broomsticks, preferring to be strategically early rather than fashionably late.

However, Granger was already there, sipping a glass of elf-made wine and chatting at the bar with Madam Rosmerta, who left off polishing glasses to give him a glare worthy of a basilisk as he approached. Trust Granger to choose the only pub in wizarding Britain where the owner was just as likely to poison him as to serve him.

"I'll take a bottle of whatever she's drinking," he directed Madam Rosmerta, "And a clean glass." With a final, vicious swipe of her towel, she shoved an unopened bottle and freshly polished glass in his general direction with a sneer.

Granger glanced at the bottle and raised an eyebrow. "Drowning your sorrows?"

"Hardly," he replied, not bothering to explain why Slytherin self-preservation dictated a preference for an unopened bottle. "Shall we?" he asked Granger, inclining his head towards an empty booth.

Once they were seated, she cast a _Muffliato _while he removed the cork with a flick of his wand. Draco refreshed her drink before filling his own glass and clinked his glass against hers. "Drink up, Granger," he urged, "_In vino veritas_ and all that." Draco smirked when she visibly flinched.

He leaned back and spoke with the confident air of a man who held all the high cards. "If you play nice, Granger, I'm prepared to do the same. But don't test my patience or insult my intelligence by claiming Ronald_ fuckwit_ Weasley managed to father a child with more brains than freckles, who happens to smirk just like me." Draco studied her over the rim of his wineglass. "Besides, there's no ring on your finger. If the Weasel had knocked you up, he'd have married you by now."

Granger took a fortifying sip of her wine and looked him straight in the eye. "Do you remember Fred Weasley? He was two years ahead of us at Hogwarts, played Beater for Gryffindor, founded Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes with his twin, killed at the Final Battle." Her voice dropped slightly with the last few words before she continued. "Fred had a _very _attractive smirk."

Draco set down his wineglass a touch harder than necessary. Of course he remembered the Weasel twins, though he could never tell them apart. While he still thought Granger was lying, he couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility that one of those cheeky bastards had gotten into her knickers. "That would be quick work on your part, Granger. Hopping on a freckled dick a week or so after I popped your cherry."

She flushed red. "Fuck off, Malfoy! You lost any claim to my loyalty the night you let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, with the awful things you said and did."

Draco decided to switch topics before things got too heated. "How'd you decide upon Reg for a name, Granger?"

Granger looked taken aback at the pleasantly-voiced question but answered readily enough. "My grandfather's name was Reginald, but he always went by Reg." She smiled to herself, a bit sadly. "When I was little, he'd tell me the most fantastic stories about witches and wizards. He passed on before I got my Hogwarts letter, so he never found out those stories were true. I wanted my son to have his nickname."

"'Reginald' is a bit plebeian for my tastes, more suitable for a Weasley brat than a Malfoy heir, but I suppose Reg is fine for a nickname. I do like the real name you chose for him _very_ much," Draco said as he unfolded a piece of Muggle paper and slid it across the table.

He didn't need to look at the Muggle birth certificate to recite the details, having memorized them long ago. "Regulus Victor Granger, mother Hermione Jean Granger, father _unnamed_. Born 14 February 1998." He gave her a grin. "That's my favorite bit - you trying to deny me after giving Reg a Black family name. Anyway, you can't say I never got you anything for Valentine's Day, Granger."

She didn't smile back. "You're reading too much into a name, Malfoy. Reg is a half-blood wizard; I wanted him to have a name, or at least a nickname, that would work in both worlds. You wouldn't think that Viktor Krum is Reg's father based on his middle name, would you?"

Draco swallowed another sip of the crisp elf-made wine as he dismissively waved her question aside. "Don't be absurd, Granger. You named him Victor after your favorite author, Victor Hugo." He chuckled softly at her look of surprise that he remembered.

"Anyhow, you as good as told me Reg was mine," he continued confidently. "As clever as you are, I'm sure you haven't forgotten what I told you during our study sessions. My mother would have named me Regulus after her favorite cousin, _in memorium_, if not for the Dark Lord's opposition."

Granger looked at him unwaveringly. "Didn't your parents ever bother to tell you the basis for Voldemort's opposition?"

"I was told Regulus committed suicide rather than bear the Dark Lord's displeasure for his many failures. My father said that he was a coward, who found it too difficult to carry out the Dark Lord's commands. Like me," Draco answered. He wasn't ordinarily so forthcoming, but Granger had always been a special case.

She graced him with a chilly smile. "There are some superficial similarities, I suppose. I learnt a great deal about Regulus Black while living at Grimmauld Place. You were both pampered Slytherin princelings who took the Dark Mark while still at Hogwarts, too young and too stupid to know any better. You both quickly began to regret it, because whatever else you were, neither of you were murderers."

She paused, swirling the straw-colored wine, apparently seeking the right words. "The critical difference is that Regulus Black didn't just fail in his mission. He actively sabotaged Voldemort, did his best to weaken him, knowing that the attempt would cost him his life. That kind of sacrifice is the opposite of cowardice."

Again, she gave him a disconcertingly direct look. "I named my son Regulus not _because_ of you, Malfoy, but _despite_ you."

"I don't believe you. I used Legilemency on you. I know Reg is my son, Granger," he insisted, trying to keep any uncertainty out of his voice in the face of her glib explanation.

She shook her head decisively. "No, Malfoy, you don't _know_ anything. You got into my mind and drew your own conclusions."

When he would have argued the point, she cut him off. "I thought I was going to be tortured to death, right there at your feet! I would have done anything to get you to help me. But even after you thought I'd given birth to your child, you just stood there and did nothing, Malfoy!"

Draco thanked Merlin for Silencing Charms, because Granger was now shouting in his face, leaning forward across the table. He was at a loss how to handle the furious witch when snogging her into silence wasn't an option, but settled for lightly placing his hands on her shoulders to try and calm her.

She abruptly sat back, as though his touch burned, and hissed at him. "You did worse than nothing! You raised your wand and _Crucio'd_ me, you bastard! Why did you do that?"

"Because I knew it wouldn't hurt you! The torture curse only works if you mean it, and I swear I didn't." It was a relief to have the words come tumbling out. "Granger, listen to me," he spoke low and urgently. "I did what I could to help you; I was trying to get you out of there. When I used Legilemency on you, I tapped into your pain and took away as much as I could."

"Is that true?" she asked. Oddly enough, she seemed to believe him. His revelation at least seemed to take some of the fight out of her.

"Yes," he emphatically answered.

"That changes nothing," Granger murmured to herself. "When you used Legilemency on me, did you know it would blunt the impact of Bellatrix's curse?" she asked more loudly, in words meant for his ears.

_Yes, of course. Potter's not the only one who can play hero_.

"No."

Draco's eyes widened and Granger's narrowed. That had not been the answer he intended to give.

"Why were you using Legilemency on me, then?"

"To find out if the sword was real and tell my aunt," he gritted out. Granger looked disgusted. "So that she would stop hurting you!" he added.

From the frown on Granger's face, he didn't think that redeemed him in her eyes. She glanced down at a piece of notepaper she'd removed from her purse, which Draco realized was a handwritten list of questions.

"You slipped me Veritaserum!" he accused. "How the fuck did you manage that?"

Madam Rosmerta apparently could read his lips. From behind the bar, she held up the damp cloth she'd so carefully used to clean his glass and waved it at him with a triumphant look.

Granger gave him a tiny smile. "I'm asking the questions now, Malfoy."

Draco swore. The Veritaserum would force him to tell the literal truth in response to Granger's questions. Her questions so far had left little wiggle room for creative interpretation. Basically, he was fucked until the potion wore off, and he'd drunk almost all of his wine. "You crafty little bitch," he muttered, half in anger and half in admiration.

"What do you want with Reg?" Granger asked, all business-like once again.

This question wasn't so bad. "I want to be in his life. I want to provide for him like my father provided for me. I want to teach him his proper place in the wizarding world, what it means to be a Malfoy. I want a chance at redemption, to be something other than the Death Eater who failed at killing Dumbledore."

He thought it was a good answer, but Granger looked troubled. "Does it bother you that Reg is a half-blood?"

"No, I don't believe in that blood purity shite any more." Another easy one.

"Would it bother you that he's a Weasley?"

"Yes," he said, between clenched teeth. Thankfully, she didn't make him explain. His aversion to the idea of a Weasel having her, impregnating her, was too primal to put into words.

"Malfoy, the night you, uh, let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts - "

"The night we had sex," he interjected, enjoying her discomfort. If she was going to dose him with truth serum, he could at least phrase the truth in a way that made her blush.

"Did you know the champagne you gave me isn't just an aphrodisiac? Did you know it enhances fertility and nullifies any Contraceptive Charm?"

Of course he had known that. The magical "honeymoon" champagne from the Malfoy vineyards in France was an exceedingly popular wedding gift in pure-blood circles, with its effects lasting for up to a month. "Yes, and yes. But - "

"Were you trying to get me pregnant?" Granger demanded, justifiably incensed.

"Hell, no! I didn't want to get you up the duff at seventeen. There is a specific contraceptive potion to counter the champagne. I gave you that potion to drink afterwards, remember?"

"You spiked it with Dreamless Sleep and practically forced it down my throat. I remember."

He wished she had forgotten. That had not been one of the finer moments in their relationship. Granger paused, and a niggling thought occurred to Draco. How had she fallen pregnant after drinking the potion? He _had_ made her drink it, both wanting to prevent pregnancy and keep her safely out of the fighting that he had known would take place later that night.

She spoke slowly, almost to herself. "You brought the champagne and the potion with you. You had it all planned. You wanted to have sex with me that night. Why?"

Draco leered at her. Finally, a question with a loophole he could slither through. "You were a hot little witch who had been teasing me all of sixth year and I was a randy bloke. Still am, for that matter." He allowed his eyes roam over Granger's upper body, admiring the cashmere-covered curves and hoping to anger her enough to leave off questioning him. "Why wouldn't I want to shag you?"

Granger stiffened but didn't let him distract her. "Why that particular night, Malfoy? You had enough on your plate, with carrying out your mission from Voldemort." Her lips curled into a sneer when Draco grimaced, both at her use of his late master's name and at her precise question. She would be furious at the answer.

At least her phrasing allowed him some leeway to explain, and the Veritaserum had worn off enough to let him begin with the explanation. "You know that the Death Eaters espoused a lot of the old pureblood ideals, right?"

Granger nodded impatiently, lips opening to ask another question, so he hurried on. "That includes a respect for property rights, in addition to the belief that Muggles and Muggle-borns are chattel at best, if not outright vermin."

She was scowling now as the Veritaserum forced him to utter the last, most damning sentence. "I knew I was going to be leaving Hogwarts that night, and I had to claim you before I left - make you _mine_ - so no other Death Eaters could fuck you."

"That is the single most vile thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth, Malfoy!"

"I was trying to protect you, Granger!" he protested.

"I would have rather protected myself, thanks ever so much!"

"You couldn't have," he said with certainty. "You weren't there to hear how they talked about you, obsessed over you." He paused for a moment, recalling the ribald speculation at Death Eater meetings about whether she was untouched, or Potter's Mudblood whore, or how many of the blood traitor Weasleys had fucked her. His eyes grew stormy at some of the dark fantasies Voldemort's followers had involving her.

Draco deliberately took another drink from his wineglass, needing her to believe what he said next. "There was no other way. If it hadn't been me, it would have been another Death Eater. Rowle - he was going to come looking for you at Hogwarts that night. That sick fuck never stopped talking about how it would feel to have you screaming beneath him. Or Greyback would have made you his bitch, sobbing on your hands and knees, as the other Snatchers cheered him on."

"So instead it was you." Granger's voice was as dark and bitter as her coffee-colored eyes.

"At least you weren't screaming in pain." Draco felt his temper slipping as she shook her head. "You enjoyed it, Granger. Of the two of us, you're the only one who can lie right now."

She looked away first.

Draco silently begged Merlin to have her move on to another topic. There were certain other things about that night he never wanted Granger to know. _Potter_ knew, from numerous interrogations of Draco and others, that Draco had told the Dark Lord and his followers about what had transpired with Granger. Probably the self-righteous berk of an Auror hadn't been able to contain himself from passing that information along to her, along with a pious warning about the dangers of trusting snakes, but Draco hoped she had been spared the details.

He never wanted Granger to find out how he had crawled before the Dark Lord the night Dumbledore died; how he had looked up at his then-master with wide eyes; how he had passively let that monster into his mind to witness every intimate detail of Granger's first sexual experience. If she asked while he still under the influence of Veritaserum, he would have to tell her that the Dark Lord, after slithering through Draco's thoughts, had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him for so thoroughly defiling Potter's Mudblood.

Suddenly, he had an idea how he could salvage something from this debacle and prevent her from digging deeper. Granger had heard him out without hexing him, but she still didn't know everything he had done in staking his claim. Quickly, he gulped the last of his wine - _liquid courage_, he thought - and struck as Granger opened her mouth to ask another damaging question.

Azkaban might have dulled his reflexes slightly, but he was still faster and stronger than Granger. He kissed her hard, molding his lips to hers with his hand pressed against her neck to hold her still. Draco twined his tongue with hers, tasting elf-made wine and wondering if it his imagination or if she really was responding to his kiss. He regretfully pulled away, eyes shining with lust and triumph.

"Tell me, Granger," he purred, "Is Reg mine?" As much as he wanted to ask about their kiss, to make her admit she still craved his touch, the minute amount of laced wine he had forced into her mouth would allow for only one question.

Her lips, which he just kissed into a rosy pink, opened in shock. Draco thought there was a flash of hurt in her golden-brown eyes before they hardened. She struggled, trying to bite back her words, but the Veritaserum was impossible to resist.

"No, never," she gasped, and then slapped him hard enough to rock his head back before she stood up and fled.


	5. Chapter 4: September 29, 2002

When his wand buzzed early Sunday morning, Draco wanted more than anything to fling it across the room, bury his head under the pillow, and forget just about everything that had happened the night before. However, he and his mother had a long-standing tradition of breakfasting together on weekend mornings when he was home, one they had maintained even when the Dark Lord had occupied the Manor. He wasn't about to disappoint her now, even if he felt like something the Kneazle had dragged in.

Granger's revelation had utterly whipsawed his perception of reality, making it the third time she had accomplished that feat. The first time had been the summer before his second year, when discreet inquiries by his mother revealed that the swotty little girl who had tied his mark in potions and beaten him in every other class was a Mudblood, and not a connection of famed potioneer Hector Dagworth-Granger as the Malfoys had all assumed. Draco could still vividly recall the sting of humiliation - not to mention his father's cane - at that discovery. The second time had been when Granger led him to believe he had fathered a child; the third time had been last night, when she unequivocally told him he had not.

After Granger stormed off, Madame Rosmerta had thrown him out of the Three Broomsticks. Draco had made his way to the Hog's Head, since Aberforth - notwithstanding his relationship to Dumbledore and nominal membership in the Order of the Phoenix - was indiscriminate as to who he served. He hadn't so much as batted an eyelash when Draco walked in and ordered a bottle of Firewhiskey, and even allowed him to make some calls from the pub's Floo, of course for a fee.

Zabini had been unavailable, probably tomcatting at some Muggle club, and Nott had been at dinner with his fiancée and her family, but loyal Goyle had come out, happy to celebrate Draco's first night of freedom and keep him from drinking alone. It wouldn't have been so bad to split a bottle with him in stolid silence, broken by the occasional grunt, but Pansy had shown up shortly before midnight, shrieking with excitement that he had been released.

Draco groaned and rolled himself out of bed. At least he'd had the sense not to bring Pansy home with him. Refreshed after a hangover potion and a shower in water as hot as he could stand it, Draco dressed quickly in pressed grey trousers and black sweater. As he emerged from his bedroom, Draco was startled to see a darkly handsome wizard casually leaning against the wall, waiting for him. "Blaise! I wasn't expecting you for a few more hours. Early night?"

"Hardly. I just got home and my elf passed along your message. Before I go to bed," Blaise yawned theatrically, "I decided to visit _chez Malfoi_ to welcome you home." He stepped forward and gave Draco a quick, hard embrace. Before Draco could object to this Hufflepuff-like sentimentality, Blaise was grinning. "Besides, I couldn't resist the lure of fresh orange juice, warm croissants, and Narcissa's beautiful face beaming at me across the breakfast table. Just like old times!"

Draco punched his friend's arm. Blaise merely laughed and began walking downstairs, turning back to ask casually, "How was your date with Granger?"

"You gossip worse than a nosy old woman, Zabini," Draco told him, secretly impressed by his friend's sources.

"'Information is power,' said the great Salazar Slytherin," Blaise replied. "You didn't answer my question."

"It wasn't a date," Draco protested. "Just a . . . discussion."

"Granger's looking good these days. I wouldn't mind having a long, intense 'discussion' with her," Blaise smirked.

"Wait - when have you seen Granger?" Draco demanded. "You two don't exactly move in the same circles."

If possible, Zabini's smirk grew even more annoying. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

"Fine," Draco sighed. "You remember back in third year, when Granger smacked me over that damned hippogriff?" Blaise nodded, not even trying to keep a straight face, and Draco continued. "It was like that, except she dosed me with Veritaserum first."

Blaise laughed out loud. "Nice one! Such a passionate little lioness!"

"Shut it, Blaise," Draco scowled. "Your turn to spill."

Blaise gave him a sunny smile. "Not much to tell. Granger's working at Gringott's, acting as a liaison between the goblins and Muggle banks. I have some Muggle investments, courtesy of step-dad number five, and we met to go over them."

Draco relaxed marginally, until his so-called best friend continued with a shark-like grin.

"I've decided that any future Mrs. Zabini needs to have brains as well as looks, so I asked Granger out. She said no to dinner - likes to spend evenings with her kid, go figure - but we've had coffee a couple of times. I think I'm starting to rub off on her," he leered.

Draco found himself suddenly tempted to shove Zabini down the remaining half-flight of stairs. "Blaise, what did I tell you about Granger when you both joined the Slug Club?"

Zabini tapped his chin thoughtfully, miming deep thought. "Let's see. I believe you threatened to feed my genitals to the giant squid if I so much as looked at her in a disrespectful manner."

"Exactly," Draco growled. "Did I ever rescind that?"

Blaise gave him a sympathetic look. "Drake, I know you've had a thing for Granger for years now, but she's not going to want anything to do with an ex-Death Eater."

Draco gave him a stormy look. "She knew about my Mark back at Hogwarts. It didn't bother her then."

Surprise flickered across Zabini's angular features. "I didn't realize you two had that much of a history. Still, Draco, in sixth year it was just an ugly tattoo on your arm. A lot has happened since then."

Draco stared at him in stony silence, refusing to concede the point. Even if Reg wasn't a link between them, he wasn't yet ready to concede that Granger was out of his life.

Blaise sighed heavily. "Good luck, then, you stubborn bastard. But consider letting me have a shot with Granger when it doesn't work out."

"You don't care that she already has a child?" Draco asked. "Somehow, I find it hard to picture you taking on that type of responsibility."

"That's what house elves and boarding schools are for, my friend," Blaise stated flippantly. "I've had enough stepfathers myself to know that benign neglect is the best approach for a stepfather to take."

Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you really think Granger would accept that?"

"Dunno," Blaise shrugged. "I'd prefer it if she came without any encumbrances, but I'll make nice with her brat if that's what it takes. She's not just a MILF to me."

"MILF?" Draco asked, puzzled, as they reached the foot of the stairs, wondering if that was new slang for Muggleborn.

"Mum I'd Like to Fu - "

"Blaise Marco Zabini! Your mother would jinx your mouth full of soap for using that sort of vulgar language!"

"My apologies, Narcissa." Draco shook his head in amused disgust as Blaise, back to his usual irreverent self, kissed his mother's hand and chivalrously escorted her to the dining room, winking at Draco over his shoulder.

"Blaise, darling, of whom you were speaking?" Narcissa inquired as soon as they were seated, eager to hear the latest rumors. "Is it the Greengrass girl?" she guessed.

"Daphne? No, is she pregnant?" Blaise's eyes were sparkling as he and Narcissa embarked on a classically Slytherin exchange of information. Draco decided to stay quiet and drink his coffee.

Narcissa nodded, happy to share her latest gossip. "Yes, and her wedding to the Nott boy wasn't supposed to be until the spring. There's no question of that now - Daphne will be ready to pop! Poor Gwendolyn is positively beside herself at having to move everything up. Still, she can't stop gloating that she'll be the first grandmother among our set."

Draco's mother gave him a slightly sour look, clearly annoyed about the Greengrass matriarch stealing a march on her.

"I apologize, Blaise, for interrupting before you could answer my question. Who were you speaking of?" Narcissa looked expectantly at her son's closest friend.

"Hermione Granger," Blaise supplied, helping himself to a pastry and fruit.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully. "She recently returned from Australia, I believe, with an adorable little red-headed boy. I've met him a few times, when I've visited Andromeda. Reg is a very clever and well-spoken child."

Blaise laughed. "Must take after his mum, then."

His mother arched an elegant eyebrow. "And what do you know of the boy's father? My sister claims to know nothing, Mr. Potter has been tight-lipped, and the Weasleys - not that I am on speaking terms with any of _them_ - have closed ranks." Draco suppressed a smile at his mother's thinly-veiled irritation that Blaise might be privy to information she lacked.

Zabini shrugged. "Nothing, but given the red hair and how he was snogging Granger at the Final Battle, I assumed it was Ron Weasley. Who is neither intelligent nor articulate."

Narcissa sniffed. "You know what they say about assuming, Blaise." She looked shrewdly at her son. "Reg reminds me quite a bit of what you were like as a child, Draco."

He regretfully shook his head. Draco had never confided in his mother, reluctant as he was to share the sordid details, but he was not surprised that she had her suspicions. "I asked Granger. She told me I wasn't the father."

He rounded on his friend, who was looking gobsmacked. "Zabini, I want your wand oath this goes no further."

Blaise nodded and held out his wand, touching the tip to the tip of Draco's wand. "I swear it."

His mother looked thoughtful. "Do you believe her? I know the boy is a redhead now, but the Granger girl is clever enough to come up with her own glamor charm. I saw her once at your aunt's with a blond infant who I _thought_ was little Teddy Lupin."

"She wasn't lying," he said flatly.

Blaise looked doubtful. "She's a good liar. Granger fooled me with that whopper she told Umbridge about a weapon in the Forbidden Forest."

"She lied to your aunt while under the Cruciatus Curse," Narcissa chimed in. "Severus told me later that the sword was real."

Against his better judgment, Draco felt the faintest stirrings of hope. It was difficult, but not impossible, to evade telling the truth under Veritaserum.

"Why not just have the pip take a blood test and be done with it?" Blaise asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Because it requires a publicly-filed petition and approval by the full Wizengamot." The blood of witches and wizards was highly regulated by the Ministry of Magic due to its potential for misuse in the Dark Arts. "And Granger would fight it."

"So? I never agreed to it, but that Brown bint was able to force me to get tested," Blaise groused. "Thank Merlin her brat belongs to the Magpies' reserve seeker."

"You're not a Death Eater and Brown wasn't a member of the Golden Trio. And Brown was pilloried in the _Daily Prophet_ as a money-grubbing slag. Do you really think I'd do that to Granger?"

"There is a paternity potion that doesn't rely on blood," Narcissa interjected. "It can be privately brewed. All that we need is a hair from the boy's head."

"Now, why couldn't the Brown bitch have used that? The blood draw hurt!" Blaise complained.

"Miss Brown may have been unaware of the potion. It's not widely known outside of the most exclusive pureblood families," Narcissa sniped. "Or she may have been unwilling to wait. It takes a full lunar cycle to brew."

"Granger won't consent to it, mother," Draco warned.

"Surely you can bluff a Gryffindor, darling," his mother told him, with a calculating smile. "And if not, you can leave it to me."


	6. Chapter 5: October 5, 2002

September had given way to October, but it was another sunny Saturday in Godric's Hollow. There was enough crispness in the air that Hermione briefly regretted her lack of a jacket, but not enough to return to the cottage to fetch one.

Reg was wearing his favorite Chudley Cannons jacket and had embarked on a running game with some of the younger boys that would assuredly keep him warm. She smiled to herself at the sight of his red hair flopping about. Hermione refused to gel Reg's hair as a matter of principle, but had resorted to a sticking charm that morning before leaving the house.

There was no sign of Malfoy at the playground, which was exactly what Hermione had expected and wanted, or so she told herself. Harry had been quite disappointed earlier in the week when she told him the results of giving Malfoy Veritaserum. Despite all of the tragedy and cruelty he had experienced in his life - or maybe because he had triumphed over it - Harry truly believed there was good in almost everyone.

She had been sorry to inform Harry that Malfoy was the same snobbish, tradition-bound elitist he had been before Azkaban, with his expressed dislike of the Weasleys and disregard for Muggle-borns as property or worse. She had been too humiliated to relay how Malfoy had viewed her sexual chattel - Harry was like her younger brother, after all. However, she had told Harry at length how Malfoy wanted to mold Reg, just as Lucius had done to him, and how that would happen over her dead body. Harry had looked at her with those sympathetic green eyes and pressed her for details as to what Malfoy had said precisely, but Hermione had been too outraged - in particular by the snake's treacherous kiss - to recall.

As she watched Reg play, Hermione was half-listening for the sound of Malfoy's racing broom. Instead, as though her thoughts had conjured him, she heard the twin cracks that accompanied Apparition and Malfoy and his mother appeared in front of her bench.

Narcissa stepped forward, hand outstretched. Hermione absently shook it, trying to keep an eye on Malfoy without being obvious about it as he circled behind her. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger. And under better circumstances for both of us than last time. I trust your wand is working well for you?"

Hermione looked up, startled that the blonde witch would willingly bring up the last time they had met. It had been less than two months after the Final Battle when Narcissa, distraught and disheveled, had stumbled through the Floo into her sister's kitchen in the middle of the night. Earlier that day, the Wizengamot had sentenced Lucius to life in Azkaban; Draco's trial was slated to begin later in the week.

Instead of Andromeda, she had found Hermione, futilely trying to sooth a sobbing and flailing Reg so they could both get some sleep before getting on a long plane flight to Australia to find Hermione's parents and restore their memories. Reg had been just four months old and Hermione had been at a loss as to whether he was teething, or colicky, or feverish from the shots he'd had earlier in the day. Startled at the sound of the Floo, Hermione had reflexively shifted Reg to her hip and raised her wand in a combat-ready position. She hadn't lowered it even after she recognized Andromeda's surviving sister. Narcissa may have lied for Harry at the Final Battle, but Hermione still didn't trust her.

After swiping tears off her face, Narcissa had defused the situation, mildly asking Hermione if she had tried a soothing charm on "baby Teddy." Narcissa had then demonstrated the incantation and wand movement on herself, sensitive to how Hermione might react should Narcissa point her wand at the Muggle-born witch or the baby. The charm had visibly calmed Narcissa, emboldening Hermione to try it on herself. She had instantly felt herself relax, as the charm evoked the feeling of being snuggled in a soft blanket.

Narcissa, however, had frowned at the dark walnut wand in Hermione's hand, clearly troubled. "That's not a safe wand to keep around a small child," she warned the younger witch. Hermione knew that Bellatrix's wand was inimical, but it was all she had; her wand had been lost at Malfoy Manor and Ollivander had yet to reopen for business. Narcissa, realizing this, had abruptly clapped her hands and summoned an elf, nearly dressed in a tea towel with the Malfoy crest, and directed it to retrieve the wand that its Master kept in the locked drawer in his desk.

A sleepy Andromeda, woken by the noise of the Floo and the elf's Apparition, had wandered into the kitchen to the bizarre sight of her sister, after years of marriage to a violent pureblood supremacist, voluntarily giving a wand to a Muggle-born witch. Hermione had immediately used the vinewood wand to perform a charm on her still-crying son, a charm that Andromeda recognized with a pang from Nymphadora's childhood.

Narcissa had waved away Hermione's thanks for returning her rightful property; when Hermione thanked her for demonstrating the charm, Narcissa had nodded at the tow-headed baby, now drowsily sucking his thumb. "Anything for family, Miss Granger."

In hindsight, Hermione had wondered if Narcissa was referring to something other than her relationship as Teddy Lupin's great-aunt.

Narcissa recalled her to the present, with a delicate gesture in Reg's direction. "Would you object if I spoke to Regulus, perhaps took him on the swings? I would like to further my acquaintance with him."

Hermione acceded to the oddly formal request, watching the elegant witch walk towards the center of the playground. Narcissa was wearing traditional witch's dress, down to the black lace half-mittens on her hands, and Hermione hoped Reg wouldn't muss her gown.

She startled as Malfoy dropped a jacket over her shoulders. "You forgot this last weekend at the Three Broomsticks."

Awkwardly, Hermione craned her head around to look at him. Malfoy was still standing, leaning on the bench with folded arms and a dark expression. Though it was a casual pose, Hermione felt intimidated. She shivered and shoved her hands into the jacket's pockets, encountering several folded sheets of parchment in the left hand pocket. "What's this?" she asked Malfoy.

"Read it and find out," he invited, in his most annoying drawl. He pulled out his wand and wordlessly cast a privacy charm.

Hermione skimmed the first few pages of a formal petition for a wizarding blood test, setting forth in cold legalese the factual basis for Malfoy's belief that he was Reg's father. Her eyes lingered on the clinical terms describing what they had done and she felt vaguely ill. The _Daily Prophet_ would have a field day.

She whipped around to face Malfoy, shaking with fury but keeping her voice steady and cold. "You realize the Wizengamot is going to deny this outright, don't you? You have no legal basis to demand a paternity test when I haven't ever asked you for even a Knut in child support."

"I didn't know you studied wizarding law," Malfoy said with easy admiration. "Though I suppose you had some reason to brush up on custodial rights."

Hermione refused to take the bait. "If you'd been paying attention in History of Magic our fifth year, Malfoy, you would know that Professor Binns covered this as part of the witches' emancipation movement in the late twelfth century."

His lips twitched in amusement. "I'll have to take your word for that, Granger. But if you'll turn to the third attachment, you'll see that my solicitor is not entirely incompetent."

Hermione flipped past the sworn affidavit of Draco Lucius Malfoy, suppressed a shudder at the signed form consenting to the use of Pensieve evidence, and reached the third attachment. Her eyebrows knitted as she reviewed the financial documents showing a substantial transfer from a Malfoy vault to her estate agent. "You secretly put 30,000 Galleons towards the purchase price of Cresswell Cottage," she observed flatly. "And I wondered why it was so affordable."

"You wouldn't have taken the money if I offered it openly."

"Absolutely not, Malfoy!" Hermione seethed. "I am not your little Mudblood whore!"

"Of course you aren't," he tried to reassure her. "I've never thought of you like that."

"I certainly heard otherwise from Rowle and Scabior," she hissed. "And what do you think people will say when that Skeeter bitch slanders me on the front page of the _Prophet_? I can take it, but have you thought about what this will do to Reg?"

Hermione looked over at her son, being pushed on a swing by Narcissa, happily oblivious to the heated discussion on the park bench. Malfoy's mother, in contrast, looked worried. Silencing charm or not, she clearly knew something was afoot.

"I haven't filed this yet, Granger, and I won't if you're willing to be reasonable."

"I'm listening, Malfoy," Hermione ground out, furious but not surprised at the blackmailing snake. She vowed to herself that if his proposal involved any sexual favors from her, she would tell him to publish and be damned. And then she'd hex his bollocks off.

"All I want is reasonable access to Reg for a month. I think he's mine and you know it, but you've gotten on your Gryffindor high horse and decided I'm Death Eater scum and therefore not worthy to be in his life. Give me a month, and I'll show you that I'm a good father and not just a sperm donor."

Once again, this was Malfoy at his most sincere and persuasive. Hermione searched for the catch.

"And after the month is up?"

"If Reg isn't my son, I promise not to bother you any further. And I'll destroy the petition regardless of his parentage."

"I want to be there at all times when you see him."

"Fine," Malfoy readily agreed. "Except, may I visit with my aunt when she minds Reg?"

After a moment's thought, Hermione nodded, grudgingly. Reg would wear Malfoy out during the day, making it less likely she would have to see him in the evening. Her self-control had always been lamentably thin where Malfoy was concerned. "So long as Andromeda has no objection."

"Oh, no," Malfoy blithely reassured her. "I've already spoken with my aunt, and she was most encouraging."

"That's just lovely," Hermione said, with sarcasm. Andromeda was not nearly as pushy as Ginny and Molly Weasley, but she had on a few occasions expressed her hope that Hermione would find a "nice wizard" to settle down with. Malfoy, of course, trended to the "naughty" rather than "nice" end of the spectrum. "And Reg doesn't set foot in Malfoy Manor," she warned.

"Unless you agree to accompany him," Malfoy bargained.

Hermione weighed her options. As far as deals with the devil went, this one was far from onerous. She pulled a quill from her bag and scrawled the terms on the blank side of one of the petition pages, tapping the parchment in a pattern to add a nasty balding jinx as a penalty for breach. Malfoy came around the bench and sat beside her as he quickly read it through. He signed his name with a flourish, trusting her enough not to add a jinx of his own.

"Brilliant. I had hoped we could start this afternoon?" Malfoy was clearly pleased with himself.

"Alright," Hermione sighed in acquiescence.

Malfoy waved to his mother in what was obviously a pre-arranged signal. She said something to Reg, trying to persuade him off the swing, and Hermione braced herself for a potential tantrum. When Reg objected, Narcissa resorted to a tried and true Malfoy tactic: Hermione saw a glimpse of gold as a Galleon changed hands.

Malfoy caught her suppressing a grin and smiled down at her. For just a second, Hermione found herself smiling back, until she felt Malfoy's hand on hers. When she tried to tug it away, he held on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Narcissa ruffle Reg's hair in a fond farewell and come away with a few ginger strands. The smile turned into a smirk and Malfoy's eyes gleamed in triumph. "Just want to make sure you don't _Accio_ those back, Granger."

With a jaunty wave, Narcissa turned on the spot and Apparated away.


	7. Chapter 6: October 6, 2002

"Add the fluxweed one piece at a time," Narcissa instructed, "And then stir clockwise three times."

The steaming potion turned from blue to deep pink and Draco's mother nodded approvingly. She was all business as they prepared the potion in the Manor's dedicated workroom, wearing sensible robes and with her hair scraped back into a severe bun that would not have looked amiss on Professor McGonagall. Narcissa was often dismissed as a mere trophy wife, but Draco knew that his aptitude for potions owed a great deal to his mother's careful tutelage.

"What's the next step?" Draco asked, silver ladle still in hand.

She consulted the battered old grimoire in her hand. "Simmer for five minutes and stir in the powdered bicorn horn."

Draco set his wand to act as a timer and carefully measured the next ingredient.

"How did it go yesterday with the Granger girl after I left?" his mother asked casually.

"She was surprisingly calm, probably because she knows the only other use for human hair is Polyjuice potion and I'm not likely to disguise myself as a four-year-old." Draco smirked at the thought. "I think her intellectual curiosity overcame her anger. Eventually."

Narcissa looked smug. "It's an obscure potion and not something they teach at Hogwarts." Draco raised an eyebrow and she hastily reassured him. "Not because it's Dark! All the ingredients are perfectly legal. It's simply become less necessary - or perhaps less socially acceptable - for pure-blood wizards to demand proof of paternity from their wives as we've moved away from arranged marriages."

"How did you find out about it, mother?"

"Your grandfather Cygnus used it on me when I was six," Narcissa informed him with a twisted smile. "He was concerned when my hair didn't turn dark like both my sisters. My mother also had been 'keeping company,' as they say, with one of the blond Avery brothers. Of course, the potion confirmed that I was a Black, but that didn't stop Bella from calling me a little bastard until she finally left for Hogwarts."

"She was a right bitch," Draco said, hoping to console his mother.

Narcissa nodded in silent agreement. "I had a choice when I was seventeen to side with Bella or Andy. I often think that I chose wrong."

The Malfoys were not a demonstrative family, but Draco still reached out to pat his mother's hand. "We both made bad decisions at the age, mum."

"Speaking of Andromeda," his mother said brightly, eager to change the subject, "was Miss Granger able to explain why she asked her to look after Reg when he was a newborn instead of that Weasley woman?"

"She said the Weasleys were too much of a target. Also, Andromeda could pass off Reg as Teddy Lupin to anyone who asked, since one baby pretty much looks like another."

"So Miss Granger claimed the blond-haired baby I saw was Teddy?"

"No," Draco shook his head. "She told me that was a Granger family trait, to have light hair as a baby that darkens later. Even offered to show me her own baby pictures."

"It's plausible, I suppose," Narcissa considered. "She's a clever young woman - you'll need all your cunning if you hope to catch her in a lie. I asked Andy, but she said Miss Granger never told her who was the father, just begged her to take the baby."

Draco was acutely uncomfortable at the idea of Granger being so desperate as to leave her child with a virtual stranger, and was relieved when his wand buzzed, providing a distraction.

"Now add the unicorn hairs, stir counter-clockwise until dissolved, and remove the cauldron from heat," Narcissa told him.

"Do I add these now?" Draco inquired, holding up a parchment envelope with three red hairs.

His mother shook her head. "The potion needs to brew until the next new moon. Then you can test Reg's hair. For now, just cover it and let it steep."

A younger Draco would have pouted at the delay. Now, he shrugged it off, noting the date in chalk on the lid of the now-covered cauldron. "'Til November 4, then. Hopefully that gives me enough time to win over his mother."


	8. Chapter 7: October 17, 2002

Hermione was finalizing a report for the Zabini Trust when Egbert the Evil entered her office, rubbing his hands in glee.

"Your lunch date is here!" he announced, with as much enthusiasm as she had ever seen from a goblin when treasure was not involved.

She looked doubtfully at the sandwich on her desk. She hadn't made plans today, but Harry sometimes stopped by if things were slow at the Ministry. "Is it Harry Potter?"

"Better," Egbert waved his gnarled hand in a dismissive manner. "Though I grant you the Potter vault maintains a healthy balance. No, my dear, you have a Malfoy waiting for you in the lobby. Come along, chop-chop."

Hermione hesitated. She and Malfoy had been getting along reasonably well over the last couple weeks, but that was with Reg there to act as a buffer. However, it seemed that her goblin boss was unwilling to let her dally. Egbert practically dragged her from the back offices to the marble lobby, his bandy legs moving at a trot.

"Take a long lunch, Hermione, as long as Mr. Malfoy likes."

This from a goblin who normally used a large, golden pocket watch to time his subordinates' breaks to the minute.

Egbert stretched up to whisper in her ear. "And I'll give you the same advice I gave my own daughter - the reason for much matrimony is patrimony!" With that, Egbert pushed her in Malfoy's direction.

Malfoy was lounging against the counter, a full moneybag at hand. Unlike his father or deceased aunt, who had treated the goblins only slightly better than house elves and had been hated for it, Hermione noted that Malfoy nodded politely at the goblin teller and went out of his way to exchange a few words with the senior manager.

He straightened as she approached and then looked pointedly up at the rotunda, where a faint change in the stone's coloration indicated new construction. "I still can't believe you persuaded the goblins to hire you after the stunt you pulled with Potty and the Weasel," Malfoy greeted her.

"Nice to see you, too, Malfoy! I'll have you know that there are only a handful of witches and wizards with a N.E.W.T. in Arithmancy and a Muggle background, let alone a university degree in finance," Hermione huffed. "The goblins recruited me, Malfoy, and all the persuasion was on their part to get me to come back to England!"

"I know you're brilliant at Arithmancy, Granger." Malfoy smiled, a slow, affectionate smile that she couldn't recall ever seeing on his face in a public setting. "I'm glad you came back." He ignored her blush and offered her his arm. "Come on, Granger. My aunt Andy and Reg are waiting for us outside Quality Quidditch Supplies."

Outside the Quidditch store, Reg was holding Andromeda's hand and alternating between staring longingly at the window display and scanning the crowd of lunchtime shoppers. It was obvious when he spotted them - he pointed and began jumping up and down. "Hi, Mummy! Hi, Mr. Draco!"

Hermione gave him a quick hug while Malfoy pecked his aunt on the cheek.

"Will you have lunch with us, Andromeda?" Hermione asked hopefully. Although she initially had been relieved when Malfoy told her Reg was joining them, she was now slightly worried about nosy witches (or wizards) seeing her out with Malfoy and Reg and drawing their own conclusions.

"Another day, Hermione," the older witch promised. "Cissy and Teddy are waiting for me back at the house."

"Scared to be alone with the big, bad Death Eater?" Malfoy asked in a low, snarky voice, for her ears alone.

"Hardly," she sniffed, feeling unaccountably guilty at the quick flash of hurt she'd seen on Malfoy's face. "Where's your scarf, Reg?" Hermione asked, seeking a distraction.

"Oh, here it is! I almost forgot!" Andromeda exclaimed, pulling the Chudley Cannons scarf from her handbag and handing it to Hermione.

"I don't want to wear it!" Reg yelled.

Andromeda gave Hermione a commiserating look to go along with her farewell wave. It looked like her son was having one of his bratty days.

"Reg, it's nippy today," Hermione tried to reason with him. "You need to wear your nice scarf so you don't get sick."

"No! No! No!"

Hermione struggled for patience, but Reg making a scene in Diagon Alley was the last thing she needed. She already felt conspicuous enough based on the attention she got as one of the Golden Trio, and Malfoy was drawing more than his fair share of glances, due to both his notoriety and striking looks. She was increasingly anxious that one of the Prophet's photographers would appear to snap a picture of the three of them.

Before she could reprimand Reg and insist he wear his scarf, Malfoy spoke up. "Granger, let him be," he drawled, plucking the scarf from her hands. He eyed the orange wool with distaste. "You can't blame Reg for deciding he no longer wants to be seen supporting the worst team in the history of British Quidditch."

"The Cannons are not the worst team!" Reg told Malfoy, defiantly snatching his scarf. "My Uncle Ron is their Keeper!"

"Which only reinforces my point," Malfoy murmured to Hermione, _sotto voce_. He grinned down at Reg, who now was trying to wind the orange scarf around his neck.

"The Cannons haven't won the league in more than a century, Reg. Your uncle could be the best Keeper in the world," he stated magnanimously, giving the Weasel King far more praise than he deserved, "but the Cannons will be hopeless until they replace Gudgeon as their Seeker. Keepers can't win a game for you; they can only lose it."

Malfoy deftly tucked the ends of the scarf into Reg's jacket and gave Hermione a wink over the boy's head. She shook her head at the Slytherin's manipulation but couldn't help appreciating the effective intervention.

The Quidditch discussion continued over lunch at a small cafe just off the main Alley. Hermione sipped her soup and listened.

"Now, if you want to root for a team with some upside, Reg, you should consider the Falmouth Falcons. They've just added a Chaser from the Irish national team and a Seeker off the top team in the American league."

Reg shook his head in vehement disagreement, but after a sharp look from his mother, finished chewing and swallowed his food before replying. She and Malfoy both nodded approvingly.

"My uncle Ron says the Falcons are the worst team in the league to play because they try to hurt the other team's players."

"The Falcons have always been known for their Beaters," Malfoy conceded, "but their ownership is now pursuing a strategy of finesse in addition to brute force."

Reg was in a stubborn mood, shaking his head again. "My uncle George says the Falcons' owner is a Dark wizard."

Malfoy gave him a sardonic look. "No, I have it on very good authority that he's a blond." Done with his meal, he folded his napkin and laid it to one side. Hermione watched as Reg carefully imitated him.

"Rather than making me rebut what each of your many uncles has to say about the Falcons, why don't you and your mother join me at a match?" Malfoy invited. "They're playing Puddlemere United next Friday - it should be an excellent game."

"Mum, can we?" Reg asked hopefully, hazel eyes wide.

Hermione opened her mouth to correct Reg's grammar, but Malfoy beat her to it. "I don't know, _can_ you?" he asked mockingly. "And a 'please' never hurts," the blond wizard added.

Reg tried again, in his nicest voice. "Mummy, please may we go to the Falcons match with Mr. Draco?"

"It's on evening of the 25th?" she asked Malfoy. He nodded.

Hermione frowned thoughtfully and bit her lower lip before coming to a decision. "I can't go, because it's Luna's birthday and Aunt Ginny and I are taking her out." Reg's face fell, until she continued. "But there's no reason why you can't go, Reg, if Mal- Mr. Draco is willing to mind you."

"Of course," Malfoy agreed instantly, looking nearly as pleased as Reg. This was the first time that Hermione had trusted him to take Reg anywhere alone. Being Malfoy, he immediately pushed his luck. "What do you say to a visit to Quality Quidditch Supplies, Reg? Your mum may have to get back to work, but you and I can look at some brooms."

Reg was ecstatic at the prospect, practically skipping as he scampered ahead of them. Hermione ordinarily held his hand in public, but there were no cars in Diagon Alley and Malfoy's height ensured they wouldn't lose sight of the little boy.

"I don't want you to buy him a broomstick," Hermione told Malfoy quietly, so that little ears wouldn't hear

"Why not?" he asked. "As Quidditch-mad as Reg is, I'm surprised he hasn't broken into the Weasley's shed and tried to fly one of their ancient Cleansweeps. He's much better off learning on a quality broom scaled for his size."

"I agree, but - "

"You agree, Granger. So I needn't come up with six other points of argumentation, complete with statistics from St. Mungo's, in order to convince you that Reg will be safer on a new broom instead of a Weasley hand-me-down." Malfoy was laughing, but not in a malicious way.

"Prat," Hermione grumbled. "I'm not that hard to convince."

"Yes, you are. It's that dangerous combination of Gryffindor obstinacy and Ravenclaw smarts," he teased, allowing Hermione's playful poke in the ribs in retaliation.

"Let me buy him a broomstick," Malfoy persisted. "Merlin knows I have the Galleons to spare."

"Malfoy - "

He interrupted her again. "Just say 'yes, Malfoy,' or, better yet, 'yes, Draco.' It's not that hard," he coaxed.

Hermione unexpectedly rounded on him. "No, Malfoy. The answer is no," she snapped. "I don't want you giving him something as expensive as a broomstick under false pretenses."

Malfoy clenched his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check. "You're still persisting in the fucking charade that the kid's a Weasley? He has table manners!"

"Etiquette is a learned behavior, Malfoy," Hermione informed him.

"Behavior which no Weasley has managed to grasp in our generation! Look, Granger, even if Reg is Weasel-spawn, I still like the kid and don't want to see him get hurt falling off some ancient broomstick that doesn't even have a basic cushioning charm. So if your stubborn pride will allow it, let's go halves on a moderately-priced children's broom and I'll teach him how to fly," Malfoy negotiated.

She accepted, but not very graciously. "Yes, Malfoy," Hermione mimicked him from a minute before.

X X X

Draco was tempted to get in the last word, to make Granger to admit it hadn't been that hard to acquiesce, but decided against provoking her. Instead, he just smirked in a self-satisfied fashion, enjoying her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes looked almost golden when she was in a temper.

He'd gotten more than he'd hoped for when Granger agreed to flying lessons. Even if Reg had extraordinary aptitude - and Draco knew he might not, since he was indisputably Granger's son and her inability to fly a broom was well-known - learning to fly well took months. His happiest childhood memories involved Lucius teaching him to fly the summer Draco turned four. It had taken the entire summer, even though Draco had natural talent and Lucius at his most benevolent still had been a hard taskmaster.

So Granger, though she might not realize it yet, had just agreed to allow him in her life for the foreseeable future, regardless of what happened with the potion.

"Would you like to join us?" he asked her outside the Quidditch shop. "You're welcome to, but we could be a while."

She shook her head and kissed the top of Reg's head. "Have fun, boys!" she called as she walked away.

Draco watched until she disappeared around a bend and then looked down at Reg, holding his hand. "Alright, buddy, let's go and get your broom."

Two weeks ago, Draco had custom-ordered an extremely safe, well-balanced broom designed specifically for children, the latest version of the model he had as a boy before graduating to a Comet. It was expensive rather than moderately-priced (Malfoys always demanded the best), but he simply would have the salesclerk make up a receipt for Granger that showed a "half" for her that was a quarter of the price.

Earlier that morning, he'd received an owl from Quality Quidditch Supplies advising that his broom had arrived, which had been the impetus to take Reg and Granger to lunch. All that Reg had to do was select the color of the paint and trim. Draco was hoping the boy would pick green with a silver snake design - what he had chosen as a child - but decided he could accept anything that didn't involve yellow or a badger.

X X X

An hour later, Draco left the Quidditch shop a very satisfied customer. The workmanship of the broom was excellent, the salesman had accommodated his request to alter the receipt for Granger with a wink and a nod, and Reg had shown excellent taste in choosing silver paint for the body of the broom with an eagle design, albeit in scarlet. Best of all, the boy was so fucking _happy_ with his new broom and the prospect of flying lessons.

Draco would have spent a lot more than a couple hundred Galleons to get Reg to look up at him with those shining eyes.

Reg tugged at his hand, pulling him towards a garishly decorated purple storefront. "Can we go in there, Mr. Draco? Please?"

"I don't know if I can," Draco answered honestly, grammar be damned, "but we can try."

The last time he patronized Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, more than six years ago, he had purchased a large quantity of Peruvian Instant Darkness powder and used it to allow a team of Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwarts. He expected that George Weasley would be even less welcoming of his custom these days than Madame Rosmerta had been.

A mousy blonde looked up from the till as they entered with a generic smile. Draco smiled back in relief at the lack of recognition. He followed Reg at a discreet distance through the store, wanting reassurance that the boy didn't resemble the surviving Weasley twin.

Reg found the one-eared Weasel as he emerged from the stockroom, carrying a bright pink box full of WonderWitch products. "Hi, Uncle George!"

The ginger set the box down and squeezed the boy in a hearty hug. "If it isn't my favorite and only nevvie! Freddy's upstairs with his mum if you'd like to visit."

Draco scrutinized the pair, looking for any commonality in their features. Much as he hated to admit it, there was some similarity in their smiles. Granger's comment about Fred Weasley's "very attractive smirk" replayed in his mind. He couldn't tell if their ears were similar; all that he could see of Weasley's profile was red hair combed over scar tissue where the shell of his ear had been severed by a curse, so there was no clue to be found. At least Reg clearly had Granger's nose and the shape of her eyes.

"See something you like, Malfoy?" Weasley asked viciously, whipping around to face Draco as soon as Reg was out of earshot. "Sorry to disappoint. You may have gotten a taste for cock in Azkaban, but you're not my type." He pulled out his wand and used it to gesture towards the front of the store. "Door's over there. Don't let it hit your candy arse on the way out."

Draco sneered at him and prudently drew his own wand. The Weasel's face was as red as his hair and Draco remembered that the man had been a brawler back at school. "Spare me your homoerotic fantasies, Weasley. I'd have to be in Azkaban for a hell of a lot longer than four years before I'd be tempted to take your freckled weasel arse."

"What's Azkaban?" piped a little voice. Reg had not gone far enough, it seemed.

"Reg, go find your mum," George ordered, red-faced with anger and embarrassment.

Draco could tell the boy was frightened at the harsh tone. Still, Reg answered back. "Mum's not here. I came with Mr. Draco. He's nice." His voice wavered on the last two words and he looked at Draco, clearly upset at the hostility crackling between the men.

"It's alright, Reg." Draco tried to sound soothing. "Let's head to the park and try out your new broom, okay?"

"No, it's not fucking alright!" Weasley exploded. Draco swiftly cast a silent _Protego_ and _Muffliato_ over the boy in case Weasley completely lost it.

"Fucking Death Eater scum walking around free while my brother's dead in the ground!" Weasley ranted. "Fred will never to get to go to a park and teach his own son how to fly. But you get to!" The redhead was spitting in his anger, Reg cowering away from him despite being unable to make out his words.

A tall woman with her hair in neatly-plaited cornrows rushed down the aisle, casting a spell to dampen the redhead's rage. "George, let's go upstairs," she urged. "Take a Calming Draught. Come on."

"Leave off, Angelina!" George shrugged off his wife's touch and turned back to Draco, sneering at the hand the blond wizard had placed on Reg's shoulder.

Weasley crouched down, eye-level with the boy, and cancelled the protective spells. "I don't know what this snake's done to your mum to make her agree to let him near you. But before you go thinking that Mr. Draco is nice, make sure he answers your question about Azkaban and tells you why he had to go there with his other Death Eater friends."

George shot one final nasty look at both of them before allowing his wife to lead him away.

X X X

Draco took Reg by Side-Along Apparition to the park near Cresswell Cottage, hoping that familiar surroundings would be comforting. He could feel the boy shaking, and see his lower lip trembling, but Reg stubbornly refused to cry. Draco was fiercely proud of him.

He steered him to a bench with a hand between his shoulder blades and sat him down. "I'll answer your question about Azkaban and then we'll go flying, alright?"

Reg looked at him expectantly with unwavering hazel eyes. Granger had on occasion given him a similar look, but never with this level of trust and innocence. She'd always known she was dealing with a snake. Draco sent a silent plea to Merlin that he didn't fuck this up. But how did one explain prison to a four-year-old?

"When you do something bad, does your mum send you to your room?" Draco was certain that Granger wasn't one to use corporal punishment.

Surprisingly, Reg shook his head. "She makes me stand in the corner and face the wall, 'cuz all my books and toys are in my room."

"Azkaban is like that, sort of. If you do something really bad as an adult, you have to go there for a long time." Draco realized it was a completely inadequate explanation, but any fuller description of the prison would guarantee nightmares.

"What did you do that was really bad?"

In the back of his mind, Draco had known that even if everything worked out perfectly, some day in the future there would be a very uncomfortable discussion about his past with Reg. But he had placed this nebulous conversation years in the future, perhaps right before Reg left to attend Hogwarts, and at a point in time after he and Granger had reached something more than an awkward _détente_. Still, there was nothing for it but to answer the question as honestly as he could, in terms that would make sense to a young child.

"I was sent to Azkaban because I let some very bad people into a school. While they were there, they - and I - hurt some people."

Ironically, out of the long list of crimes he had committed as a Death Eater, he had only been charged with aiding and abetting burglary, mayhem, and two counts of assault for hexes he threw at teachers and Order members on the night Dumbledore died. There had been no charge for aiding and abetting murder based on the Pensieve memories that the headmaster and Professor Snape left behind.

He still would have been serving a mandatory life sentence several times over for the Unforgivables he cast in his sixth and seventh year, but those had been forgiven under the blanket amnesty issued to Hogwarts students. During the Carrows' reign of terror, his classmates had the stark choice of being tortured or becoming torturers. The majority had chosen the latter; the Ministry had realized that without an amnesty for those crimes, an entire generation would be imprisoned.

"Was Mummy one of the people who you hurt?"

"I've never laid a violent hand on your mother. Ever."

And that flat statement was the absolute, literal truth. Even when Granger had slapped him, he hadn't physically retaliated. The one time he hit her with a jinx, he had been aiming at Potter.

"Ready to try out your new broomstick?"

Based on Reg's enthusiastic assent, he had accepted Draco's statement at face value. Draco didn't think less of him for that. After all, Reg was only four and Draco excelled at bending the truth.

But Draco knew there were ways to hurt that didn't involve physical violence, and thought that Granger might have been the person he hurt the most that terrible night. As he knew firsthand, the sting of betrayal lasted long after any damage inflicted by hand or wand faded.

A/N: Egbert's views on marriage are borrowed from Ogden Nash.


	9. Chapter 8: October 25, 2002

Hermione shepherded Reg through the fireplace into the Leaky Cauldron, followed by Ginny Potter. The pub was already busy, even though it was early on a Friday night. Malfoy evidently had been watching for them, since he rose immediately from a table and shouldered his way through the crowd by the Floo.

"Blaise and Goyle are holding a table over this way," he half-shouted to Hermione over the noisy patrons at the bar. He grabbed her hand and led her in the indicated direction, using his bigger body to create a path for them. He released her hand only to pull out a chair for her.

Hermione sat down, feeling inexplicably flustered. Really, what he had just done was no different than the kind of casual touching she engaged in all the time with Harry or Ron. Perhaps it was that Malfoy's public persona had always been cold and undemonstrative, although she noticed he had raised no objection to Reg hugging his legs before he plopped the boy down in the chair between him and Gregory Goyle.

Goyle grunted something at the two witches that might have been a greeting. He then shocked Hermione by smiling at Reg and pulling a book, of all things, out of his pocket.

"You look enchanting, Hermione," Blaise declared, half-standing and kissing both of her cheeks, overtly admiring her sleeveless black dress, cinched with a red belt, and high-heeled, strappy red sandals. The sandals belonged to Ginny, and Hermione was worried they were a bit too much, but the redhead had positively insisted that she wear them.

"Er, thanks, Blaise." The dark wizard was always flirtatious, occasionally to the point where it made Hermione slightly uncomfortable . . . like now.

Malfoy looked up from the floor and his own examination of the red sandals and her matching nail polish to frown at his friend. "Granger always cleans up well. Remember Sluggy's Christmas party?"

Hermione now felt distinctly uncomfortable. She wasn't sure whether Malfoy's compliment, such as it was, was a subtle comment on her blood status, and she hadn't missed the intense look exchanged between the two wizards or the hooded look in Malfoy's eyes as he watched her. Her body remembered that look and what it meant, and she felt her pulse quicken in response.

"I'm going to get a Butterbeer while we wait for Luna," she announced, standing up. "Would anyone else like a drink?"

"Soda water with lime for me, please," Ginny requested. The three men shook their heads. Although she didn't look back, Hermione was fairly certain Malfoy's gaze never wavered.

Tom the barkeep served her in record time, which Hermione supposed was one of the perks of being Harry Potter's best friend. As she returned to the table with a Butterbeer, the water, and a mug of pumpkin juice for Reg, she could hear Blaise and Ginny engaged in their usual charged banter.

"Weaselette!" Blaise exclaimed with a gleaming smile, focusing his attention on Ginny's emerald green sweater dress. "I like that color on you. Are you cheering for Slytherin these days?"

"Puh-leeze, Zabini," the redhead rolled her eyes. "I love this dress because it's the exact shade of Harry's eyes." Then she fluttered her eyelashes in mock seduction. "Besides, I never cheered - I always played."

"Believe me, Little Red, I haven't forgotten," Zabini leered. "Or should I call you Big Red these days?"

Hermione choked on a sip of her Butterbeer and Malfoy burst out laughing. "Smooth like a fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff," he mocked his friend.

Goyle looked up from the children's book he was reading to Reg. "I don't think you should tell a pregnant witch that she's big, Blaise," he said seriously. "You should just say that she's glowing."

"I didn't say Ginny was fat!" Blaise protested. "She's totally a MILF!"

"Blaise, I'd prefer it if Reg didn't add too many new words to his vocabulary tonight," Hermione cautioned. Luckily, the boy was engrossed in his new book to ask what that acronym meant.

"Milk. I said 'milk,'" Blaise attempted to recover, gesturing at his chest. "Big jugs of milk!"

"You're just digging yourself deeper, Zabini," Ginny was red-faced, torn between anger and laughter.

"Sorry, Weasley. I often let my tongue get away from me," Blaise waggled his dark eyebrows suggestively.

Ginny gave up on her anger and laughed long and loud at the incorrigible wizard. "Oh, Blaise! Promise me you'll never change."

She wagged a playful finger in his face. "Don't forget, though, it's Potter now, not Weasley. I'm a respectable married woman. This isn't some bastard I'm carrying!"

Hermione heard Malfoy's harsh intake of breath as silence fell over the table. Ginny turned bright red, realizing her _faux pas_. "I didn't mean - "

For the second time that evening, Hermione decided to tactfully extricate herself from an awkward situation. "Oh, look, Luna's here!" she exclaimed, cutting Ginny off. The blonde witch had exited the Floo and was looking vaguely around the room. "I'll just go and fetch her."

As Hermione stood and turned away from the table, she heard Malfoy's icy voice. "Ginevra, I'd like a word in private, if you please."

She walked away, ignoring the plea in Ginny's eyes. Hermione had endured a few too many well-meaning comments from Ginny and Mrs. Weasley about the undesirability of single parenthood for a woman and pushy recommendations regarding Ron's potential excellence as a stepfather to step in and save the redhead from a tongue-lashing by Malfoy.

When she came back to the table with Luna, Ginny was just retaking her seat, pale and uncharacteristically quiet. Malfoy sat back down as well, still rigid with anger.

Hermione placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and wasn't surprised to feel tense muscle beneath the fine fabric of his black wizarding robes. "Malfoy, it's alright," she said softly for his ears alone, wiillng to play peacemaker, even if Ginny had deserved a reprimand. "Ginny is a great friend and would never intentionally say or do anything to hurt me or Reg. It was a thoughtless comment, nothing more."

Unconsciously, she began tracing small circles between his shoulders and on the back of his neck. She became aware of the intimate action only when Malfoy leaned back into her touch and closed his eyes.

"It's all too easy to be thoughtless when one has the brains of a Weasel," he muttered, "I'll forgive her, though, if you keep that up."

"For a few more minutes," Hermione granted. "We have a dinner reservation in Muggle London."

"Posh?" Malfoy asked, cracking one grey eye open.

Hermione hummed noncommittally. "More kitsch than posh. Luna wanted to go to this tiki bar in Soho to celebrate the seasonal migration of the Pacific humdinger."

Malfoy opened his other eye and raised one skeptical eyebrow. "Pacific humdinger? Never heard of it."

"It's found only in the Hawaiian islands and Fiji. It's the tropical cousin of the equally imaginary blibbering humdinger," Hermione informed him with a straight face.

"Ah, that explains Lovegood's grass skirt," he grinned. "Might be fun!"

"Don't you need to leave soon for the game?" she asked pointedly. "If it's anything like the Cannons, there'll be a long line at the entrance gates."

"You insult me, witch - the Falcons are _nothing_ like the Cannons!" he stated, jokingly affronted. "Besides, we can Apparate right into the owner's box. Best perk ever." Malfoy straightened and looked at his watch. "Still, we probably should be going," he agreed.

"Wait, you can Apparate into the owner's box?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

Malfoy stood up and stretched. "Considering that I've had my Apparition license since I turned seventeen, knew how to Apparate considerably before that, and own the Falcons, I can safely say the answer to your question is 'yes.'" He offered Hermione a hand as she stood up, which she took, not trusting in the wobbly high heels. "Unless you'd prefer that I don't Apparate with Reg? I promise not to splinch him."

"I know you won't." Hermione had full faith in Malfoy's abilities as a wizard and trusted him to be careful with Reg. "I was just surprised that you could Apparate directly into the box from a security standpoint. It doesn't seem very safe, does it? You couldn't do that at the Quidditch World Cup."

"They build temporary stands and boxes for the World Cup and don't bother to ward them except against ticket fraud. In fact, they don't allow Apparition at the World Cup for precisely that reason," Malfoy explained as they walked through the pub towards the Leaky's entrance onto Charing Cross Road. Hermione wondered if he realized he was still holding her hand. "The Falcons have used the same stadium in Falmouth for more than a century, and the Malfoy family has owned the team even longer than that, so we've had plenty of time to put wards on the owner's box that limit Apparition to those who should be there."

"Which reminds me," Malfoy broke off and beckoned to Goyle, who was escorting Reg through the Leaky Cauldron in the opposite direction, towards Diagon Alley and the designated Apparition point. "Make sure you wear this," Malfoy instructed Reg, releasing Hermione's hand to grab a silver falcon pendant from his pocket and slip it over the boy's head. "Though I doubt you'll need it."

"Why not?" Hermione was curious to learn more about pure-blood wards and how they worked.

"Two reasons." Malfoy ticked them off on his fingers. "First, he's traveling Side-Along with me, so if I can get through the wards, so can he. Second, the wards recognize anyone with Malfoy blood."

He placed a finger over her lips when she opened her mouth in automatic protest. Once her lips closed, he removed his finger and quickly, softly brushed his lips against hers. If Zabini could kiss her, so could he. "Have a good night, Hermione."

X X X

The Falcons' publicist was waiting as they Apparated into the box. "Thank Merlin you're here, Mr. Malfoy. The _Daily Prophet's_ sports editor is waiting for his pre-game interview."

Draco bit back a nasty expletive. He had entirely forgotten about his meeting with the journalist, who was writing a feature on the Falcons' resurgence. "Blaise, Greg, can you entertain the sprog for ten minutes? I'll make this quick."

He took a closer look at Reg. In the dim light of the Leaky, and while distracted by Granger and her fuck-me shoes, Draco hadn't noticed that Reg was wearing his Cannons jacket and scarf. "Reg, we really need to expand your wardrobe beyond Chudley orange and Gryffindor red." He tossed a money bag to Blaise. "Zabini, get him outfitted in some Falcons gear."

Blaise deftly caught the bag. "No problem, Drake."

Draco sincerely hoped there wouldn't be any problems as Zabini and Goyle walked away, each holding one of Reg's hands and periodically swinging him in the air as he shrieked with glee. Granger would murder all three of them if anything happened to her little boy.

Twelve minutes later, just after Draco had graciously sent the reporter on his way, the two men reappeared in the owner's box, Reg still swinging like a monkey between them, but now dressed in a silvery-grey Falcons jacket and matching scarf.

"Looking good, Reg," he greeted the boy. "Did you comb his hair?" Draco asked Blaise, trying to put his finger on what was different about Reg's appearance."

"Nah, but the color makes his eyes pop," Blaise observed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "What the feck does that mean? Zabini, mate, there are times when I seriously doubt your heterosexuality. "

"It means that the grey jacket looks good with his grey eyes." Blaise impatiently replied. "Wanker," he added in a low voice so Reg wouldn't hear.

"Reg's eyes aren't grey. They're hazel," Draco scoffed. "Tosser," he whispered back at his friend.

"Greg, what color are the kid's eyes?" Zabini appealed to Goyle as a neutral arbiter.

Goyle crouched down and peered into Reg's eyes. "Silver with gold flecks," he pronounced.

"In other words, hazel," Draco smirked at Blaise.

Goyle slowly shook his head, signaling a rare disagreement with Draco. "No, they're grey like your eyes, except with gold flecks instead of blue."

Draco backed up a few paces and stared at Reg's eyes. "Son of a bitch," he swore softly, forgetting Granger's "no profanity" rule for a moment.

Blaise laughed and leaned over to mutter in Draco's ear, "Watch it, mate. That's no way to refer to the mother of your son." The wizard turned his dark eyes on Reg, who was thankfully paying no attention to the adults' conversation, engrossed as he was in looking out the box's oversized windows at the pitch, where the teams were warming up. "Hey, sprog," Blaise addressed Reg, "do you know that Halloween is next week?"

Reg turned back to the adults, visibly perking up at this vastly more interesting topic. "Yeah. I'm going to be Batman!"

Draco, Blaise and Goyle exchanged puzzled looks and shrugs. What was a "bat-man"?

Blaise continued. "For tonight, would you like to be a scary, snarky, snake instead?"

"Sure!" Reg happily agreed.

Blaise smirked at Draco over the boy's head and recited a simple, temporary Glamour Charm that turned Reg's hair platinum blond. The darkly handsome wizard's grin widened at his handiwork. "Oh, yeah. He's definitely got a serpent's look to him. Don't you think so, Draco?"

Goyle looked slowly from Reg to Draco, his mouth hanging open at the resemblance.

"Well, well. Looks like we have a little Slytherin prince in training, after all," Zabini gloated. "Don't you agree, Drake?" he prodded.

Draco nodded, absently. He knew the prudent thing would be to change Reg back to a ginger, but he had to admit he _really_ liked the effect.

Before he could tell Blaise to reverse the charm, another wizard knocked and entered the box, hand outstretched and a smile on his face. Draco recognized Adrian Pucey, a former Chaser on the Slytherin house team who had been a few years ahead of him at Hogwarts. The Puceys, like the Malfoys, were a wealthy, established pure-blood family. Unlike the Malfoys, the Pucey clan had never been active supporters of Voldemort. Adrian's father had even sent him to Paris after graduation, to help operate one of the family businesses and to prevent him from being recruited as a Death Eater.

"Malfoy, it's good to see you," Pucey pleasantly declared, with a nod towards Goyle and Zabini.

Draco shook his hand and mentally sighed as Pucey's sharp eyes shifted to Reg. Adrian wasn't a viper, and Draco generally considered him an ally, but Pucey still had a malicious tongue.

"I was stopping by to welcome you back now that you've been paroled," Pucey said, eying the little boy, "but I see that congratulations are doubly in order. I hadn't heard that you'd gotten married?"

Draco gave him a cool smile. "No, you hadn't."

"Cute kid," Pucey complimented. "What is he, four?" he asked, subtly trying to establish a mental timeline for Reg's birth and conception.

Draco nodded, tight-lipped. In their elite pure-blood world, unplanned pregnancies either resulted in a hasty wandpoint wedding or a formal acknowledgement of the child and provision for his or her support. Pucey clearly was intrigued that he had heard nothing via the grapevine of such accommodation with respect to Reg, or even a prior whisper of the boy's existence.

Draco decided to toss him a bone that would also throw him off the scent. "Regulus has been living abroad with his mother until recently."

Several progressive pure-blood and half-blood families had sent their daughters to Beauxbatons or the Salem Institute after Dumbledore died, rather than entrust their education to Death Eaters. Pucey would assume that one of those girls was Reg's mother and that Draco, due to his recent release from Azkaban, was still negotiating the terms of the prenuptial agreement.

"Then you must be happy that he's returned to England," the other wizard remarked. "My son Etienne is the same age and my little Adrianna just turned three. Perhaps we can have them all get together for a play date once you've had a chance to regularize the situation."

"Perhaps." Draco answered, non-committal. Reg was a talkative little boy, and an afternoon of his chatter about "Uncle Harry" and various and sundry Weasels would make it obvious that Hermione Granger was his mother. Not that Draco had any objection to making the extent of his relationship with Granger public knowledge, but he knew she would hate being the subject of pure-blood gossip.

Now Pucey looked vaguely affronted. Slytherins formed alliances early, and he had definitely gone out of his way in doing so by offering to introduce his children to a Malfoy born out of wedlock. He expected Draco to have accepted with alacrity and pushed for a firm date, and Adrian clearly was struggling to understand the tepid nature of his response. A sudden expression of comprehension and compassion crossed Pucey's handsome face.

"Malfoy, are you still waiting for him to manifest accidental magic? Because if you are, I know of an excellent specialist - "

"Pucey, did you just ask if my kid was a Squib?" Draco was incensed. He was going to nip this particular rumor in the bud. "Reg, come here for a minute," Draco called to the boy. "Do you remember what I taught you yesterday at Aunt Andy's house?"

Reg nodded eagerly. "Good, I want you to show off your new skill to Mr. Pucey."

Draco silently waved his wand to close and lock the door to the box. Belatedly, he realized he should have done so when they had first arrived, to avoid that pillock Pucey altogether. Without any further instruction, he handed his wand to Reg.

"_Alohomora_!"

Reg's pronunciation and wand movements were perfect and, not surprisingly, the door clicked open.

Draco smirked proudly as Reg returned his wand, while Pucey, Zabini, and Goyle (who hadn't mastered the spell until his third year at Hogwarts), stared in shock. Accidental magic was common among young wizarding children and even toddlers, but purposeful magic by a preschooler was unheard of.

Blaise recovered first, grinning. "Sweet trick, mate," he told Draco in a low voice so Reg wouldn't overhear, "but someday, when he catches you shagging his mum, you're going to regret teaching him that spell instead of _Lumos_."

Draco shrugged it off. "I'll take the risk." At present, any shagging of Granger was taking place only in his fantasies. If that ever changed, he knew some more complex locking spells he could employ.

Goyle just smiled proudly. "Nice one, little guy!" he congratulated Reg.

Pucey looked thoughtful and vaguely envious, which is exactly how Draco would feel in his shoes. "Impressive. I'll have to try that at home with Etienne."

Draco just smirked again. "You do that." Unless Pucey's wife was a prodigy like Granger, instead of the usual pure-blood trophy wife, it really wouldn't matter if Pucey's kid was using a stick picked up off the ground or his father's wand. Neither would work.

He ushered Pucey out of the box just before the referee released the Snitch. Getting rid of Adrian involved another round of handshaking, to the point where Draco wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if Pucey hit him up for a campaign contribution in the near future. "It was great seeing you and meeting Regulus! He's a son to be proud of! I'll Owl you!" Pucey called as Draco shut the door, spell-locking it to prevent any other surprise visitors so long as Reg's hair remained Malfoy blond.

Reg was sitting beside him, seemingly transfixed by the game. Other than his cheering whenever the Falcons scored, Reg was unusually quiet, which Draco in hindsight realized was a dangerous sign - just as it was with Reg's mother.

The boy waited to strike until Zabini and Goyle were distracted, celebrating a spectacular goal by the new Irish Chaser with shots of Firewhiskey. Draco felt a small hand tug his to get his attention and looked down at Reg's bright hazel - no, grey - eyes. "Mr. Draco, why did that man think you were my daddy?"

Draco ruffled the temporarily white-blond hair on Reg's head affectionately and thought quickly to come up with an answer that wouldn't alienate mother or son."He thought you were my son because our hair is the same color right now."

"I like this color," Reg declared, tugging at a blond lock. "Can I keep it this way?"

Draco smiled and gave the boy a one-armed hug. "I don't know, sprog. We'll have to wait and see what your mum says."


	10. Chapter 9: October 25-26, 2002

"It's so pretty!" Luna smiled dreamily at her vibrantly pink cocktail. "Exactly the same color as the Humdinger's tail feathers!"

Ginny Potter morosely twirled the umbrella in her non-alcoholic tropical drink. "It just doesn't taste the same without the rum," she complained.

"Sorry, Gin," Hermione commiserated. "Another month and then I'll bring the rum to St. Mungo's for a celebration. We can sneak you a little tipple then."

"More like six weeks. Every Weasley in the history of Weasleys has been born late." Ginny rubbed her belly. "I'm not expecting this brat until December. Was Reg early or late?"

"Early. I thought he'd be a March baby."

"Well, I can always hope!" Ginny said brightly.

Hermione took a generous sip of her own fruity drink (in her case, _with _alcohol) before changing the subject. She hated thinking about the dark, desperate day when Reg had been born. "Are you sure you're up for taking him when I go to New York in November? He's a handful for me, and I'm not nine months pregnant."

Ginny waved away her concerns. "It's fine. Mum or Andromeda will wear him out during the day, and Harry and I will get him supper and put him to bed at night. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, we'll consider it good practice for when James Albus arrives." The redhead grinned at Hermione. "If I really need a break, I can call on a certain blond Ferret who likes to play daddy."

"Ferrets are very social animals. They make excellent parents," Luna noted.

Hermione looked grim. "Sorry to disappoint, but Malfoy's month is up the day after I leave for New York."

"Reg will miss him a lot," Ginny observed.

"It's only been a month. He'll get over it," Hermione said defensively.

"You won't change your mind?" Ginny asked.

The brunette witch shook her head, mouth set in a stubborn line. "Malfoy will lose interest in Reg once he sees the results of whatever pure-blood paternity potion he and his mother have concocted."

"I can't believe I'm defending the Ferret after he just reamed me out at the Leaky, but he's been excellent with Reg. He really cares about him." Ginny sighed as she continued. "Look, I know you're sick of Harry's guilt trip, and tired of me saying this, but as someone with six brothers, I can tell you that little boys need a father figure in their life. Malfoy's connected with Reg in a way that Ron and Harry haven't been able to do."

"You didn't hear him under Veritaserum, Ginny. He sees Reg as a possession, a little mini-Draco he can train up and show off."

"If you want to get the right anwers with Veritaserum, you need to ask the right questions." Luna looked at Hermione with owl-like eyes. "Are you sure you did?"

Hermione said nothing.

Ginny looked thoughtful at the brunette witch's lack of response and pushed on. "Most fathers are like that with their sons, at least a little bit. Do you know Harry made a mobile for the baby out of all the Snitches he ever caught? He's already talking about how James will play Seeker for Gryffindor!" she laughed. "Even my dad was always trying to get the boys to help him with his Muggle gadgets."

"The Malfoys take it to a dangerous extreme, Gin."

Ginny could be nearly as hard-headed as Hermione. "Just because Lucius did doesn't mean Draco will."

"You're usually a very fair person, Hermione," Luna commented softly. "I don't think you'd judge anyone except Draco based on what his father had done."

"Believe me, Malfoy's done quite enough on his own." Hermione signaled the bartender for another drink. "Can we change the subject, please? Let's talk about something else."

"Anything else?" Luna asked.

"Sure, it's your birthday." Hermione resigned herself to a discussion of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and other creatures that existed only in Luna's imagination.

"How did you and Draco get together?" Luna looked at Hermione with wide, slightly vacant blue eyes.

"We were never together," Hermione snapped, feeling blindsided.

"But you had sex, didn't you?" Luna innocently persisted. "You must have, for Draco to think that he's Reg's father."

"Once," Hermione grudgingly conceded.

Luna just looked at her expectantly, head cocked to one side. "From everything I overheard in the girls' bathroom, I expect that it would be very nice to have sex with Draco Malfoy."

Ginny grinned. "I heard the same rumors, though I don't think 'nice' quite describes getting shagged into the mattress by the Slytherin sex god. Parvati told me she literally saw stars."

Hermione looked down at her drink, not responding.

"But Hermione doesn't seem to have liked it," Luna observed. "Maybe that's why she is being so unfair to Draco, even though he's a much kinder person than he was at school."

Ginny suddenly looked horrified. "Oh, Merlin, Hermione! I never thought - Did Malfoy - Were you unwilling?"

"No, I was willing. Extremely willing, and trusting, and stupid, and naive," Hermione told them, angry at Malfoy and at herself for how foolish she'd been at seventeen.

She sighed. Maybe she would feel better getting this out in the open. It certainly something she would never confide in Harry or Ron.

"Look, I'll tell you what happened, but I want you both to promise this goes no further."

The other two witches nodded solemnly.

"And I want you to stop nagging me about keeping Malfoy in my life or Reg's life."

Ginny nodded again, reluctantly this time.

Hermione took a deep breath and spoke quickly, like pulling off a sticky plaster. "Early on in sixth year, Professor Vector asked me to tutor Malfoy in Arithmancy. Neither of us were particularly happy about the situation, but I hoped it would help my chances of becoming Head Girl and Snape browbeat Malfoy into accepting my help with some minimal level of civility."

She fiddled with her drink. "There was definitely . . . attraction, I suppose. One day we acted on it and kissed. It was around the time that Ron hooked up with Lavender. And after that, whenever Malfoy and I met, we'd study and then we'd snog. The last time, we shagged."

Hermione looked up, worried she would see condemnation in Ginny's eyes following her bare-bones recital of the facts. The redhead instead smiled with understanding.

"I don't blame you in the slightest, Hermione. Malfoy's attitude was absolutely vile at Hogwarts, but there's no denying he was - and still is - a sexy snake."

"Vipers are usually the most attractive species of reptile," Luna offered.

Hermione smiled weakly. "I thought having sex with him was my idea - after all, what else could I get as a birthday gift for a boy who had everything? And Malfoy was . . . he was sweet, if you can imagine such a thing. He even brought champagne."

"Forget about sweet," Ginny grinned. "Was the shagging hot?"

Hermione made a face at her incorrigible friend. "I can verify the rumors are true. I enjoyed myself tremendously, even if it did hurt a bit. He set a very, very high bar for anyone to match."

"I'm not going to ask for details, if only because I don't want to hear an unflattering comparison to any of my brothers, _but_ what happened? Other than the obvious that Malfoy let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, but if Harry could forgive him for that, with how close he was to Dumbledore, I don't see why you wouldn't."

"He used me, Ginny, in a way that was much more personal than anything he ever did to Harry."

"Used you for sex?" Ginny questioned.

"It wasn't that, or at least wasn't just that," Hermione shook her head. "I was tutoring him in _Arithmancy_," she stressed.

The other two witches looked at her blankly, not appreciating why that was significant.

Hermione's voice took on a faintly pedantic note. "Arithmancy formulas and calculations provide the underpinnings for all forms of magical transportation: broomsticks, Portkeys, even Vanishing Cabinets. During sixth year, I learned how to make Portkeys, just in case the Department of Magical Transportation was ever co-opted by Death Eaters. I also unwittingly helped Malfoy figure out the formulas he needed to fix the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement."

She gave a brittle laugh. "You know I've always helped Ron and Harry with homework, and I thought Malfoy was _so_ appreciative in contrast. He told me I was saving his life, which I didn't realize was literally true until after Professor Dumbledore was dead."

Luna and Ginny stayed silent, sensing that Hermione needed to unburden herself.

"Ironic, isn't it, that a pure-blood Death Eater had to rely on a Muggle-born witch to complete his mission?" she asked rhetorically. "I suppose I could forgive him for that, knowing now his mother's life and his own life were at stake, but I can't accept that he never stopped thinking of me as something inferior."

"Why do you say that?" Luna asked gently.

"It's all part and parcel with the rest of what happened the night Professor Dumbledore died. Malfoy hadn't used _that_ word for months. I really thought he had changed, had realized that blood status has nothing to do with magical ability. But when I slept with him . . . " Hermione looked down at her drink, seeking the right words. "Towards the end, he got a little rough and when he . . . when he climaxed, he called me a Mudblood."

"Ugh, that's disgusting." Ginny looked troubled. "Merlin forbid that I give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, but is it possible he just got carried away? Some wizards like talking dirty during sex, and Malfoy's vocabulary isn't the cleanest to start."

Luna's sweet face was serene. "Isn't there a Muggle saying? 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me?'" she asked.

"Not physically," Hermione muttered. "And he didn't just get carried away, Gin. You know me - I wouldn't let something like that just pass without asking about it."

Grimly, she went on. "As soon as he'd calmed down a bit, I called him on it." Hermione stared blankly ahead, remembering how Malfoy had looked like a dissipated angel, with his hair mussed and cheeks flushed. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life, lying naked next to him, with her blood and his cum still sticky on the inside of her thighs.

"He looked at me like I was speaking Mermish. And then he told me he didn't see what the problem was, because I _was_ a Mudblood, but not to worry." She laughed mirthlessly. "Malfoy said the Dark Lord had no objection to Mudbloods in their proper place - on their backs or on their knees. And since I'd just proven my worth in both positions, he would take care of me after Voldemort won."

Ginny looked horrified. Luna's face was impassive as she twirled the umbrella in her drink.

"It got even uglier after that, if you can believe it," Hermione grimaced. "The worst of it is that he had some sick Death Eater notion that sex gave him some kind of claim over me. He admitted that last month under Veritaserum."

"What a sickening sack of dragon shite! No wonder you want nothing to do with him!" Ginny was fired up, eyes flashing and face red.

"I hope you feel better, Hermione. Like lancing a boil." Luna patted her hand sympathetically.

Then the blonde's gaze grew unexpectedly penetrating. "Do you know that Voldemort used Legilemency on all of his Death Eaters? Quite a few of them had to spend time in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor when I was there because he didn't like what he saw in their minds. But Legilemency only shows an image of what someone did and said. It doesn't show what someone felt."

Hermione nodded. Indeed, it had been Malfoy who taught her about that particular weakness and how to exploit it.

"Draco grew up with a father as a Death Eater. He knew Voldemort would have access to his mind." Luna spoke persuasively. "I believe he feared Voldemort would see his memories and consider him a traitor for what took place between the two of you - unless Draco made it seem as though he'd seduced you for selfish reasons and because he wanted to humiliate Harry Potter's Muggleborn best friend. What Draco said was horrible, but it did effectively protect both of you."

"I hate to say it," Ginny grumbled, "but that sort of makes sense. Especially from a Malfoy. Their family motto may as well be 'the ends justify the means.'"

"It's actually '_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_,'" Hermione corrected automatically.

"Ginny's motto seems more fitting," Luna said seriously. "Draco hasn't really adhered to the other one, but he's shown he'll do just about anything short of murder to protect someone he cares about."

"I think Draco really cared about you, Hermione, despite what he said back then," Luna went on relentlessly. "And I think he still does. I thought it was really sweet how he held your hand and kissed you good night."

Ginny was aghast. "Wait, when did the Ferret kiss you? I noticed you two couldn't keep your hands off each other at the Leaky, but how did I miss a lip lock?"

"It was just a quick kiss goodnight when we left. You were too busy flirting outrageously with Zabini to notice," Hermione told her, half-smiling. She turned to Luna. "Malfoy just wants to get me in bed again," she declared cynically.

Luna pursed her lips in thought. "I think he does," she agreed. "But I think he also wants to talk with you, and make you happy, and protect you. And from what I saw, you may be starting to feel the same way about him again. Why not give him a chance?"

X X X

Last call at the Leaky Cauldron was at midnight, so the crowd had already thinned out by the time Ginny Potter led her two giggling friends into the pub from Muggle London, steering them directly to the fireplace. Hermione in particular had imbibed a few too many tropical drinks to Apparate safely, taking full advantage of Andromeda's offer to have Reg sleep over with Teddy so she could enjoy a girls' night out.

"Make sure to enunciate," the redhead cautioned.

"Cresswell Cottage," Hermione said carefully, throwing a pinch of the complimentary Floo powder provided by the Leaky Cauldron on the fire. She gave both of her friends a quick, grateful hug before stepping into the green flames. She tripped exiting through the fireplace in her living room, but caught herself with a steadying hand on the mantel. The first order of business, she decided, was to remove Ginny's overly high-heeled scarlet sandals.

The first came off easily enough, but the left shoe proved to be troublesome. "Bugger," she muttered, struggling with the buckle. Not wanting to risk snapping the delicate straps, Hermione let go of the mantel to devote both hands to the task, but nearly pitched face-first onto the rug with the loss of support. She squeaked as a pair of strong hands grasped her upper arms and pulled her upright.

"Salazar's rod, you are completely and utterly _sloshed_," commented a laughing voice in her ear.

She turned around and blinked up at a pair of surprisingly warm grey eyes. "Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

X X X

Draco was dozing on Granger's comfortable overstuffed couch when the Floo activated and Granger stumbled through. For the next minute or so, he watched with unholy amusement as the brightest witch of their age attempted, with limited success, to take off her strappy sandals while clinging to the fireplace and hopping about.

He intervened when Granger, with one shoe off and one shoe on, finally lost her precarious balance. Draco half-expected her to go for her wand when he grabbed her arms from behind. However, once she swiveled around to face him, she merely seemed puzzled that he was in her home in the wee hours of the morning. Looking down at her flushed cheeks, mussed curls and wide eyes, he realized that Granger made a rather adorable drunk.

Draco guided the tipsy witch to the couch and sat her down. "To answer your question, I'm here because Teddy is sickening with something. My aunt didn't want Reg to catch whatever it is, so she gave me access to your house through her Floo. He's asleep now upstairs in his room."

As he spoke, he deftly unbuckled the remaining sandal and slid it off her foot, not without a tinge of regret and stealthy caress of her ankle. Ever since she had shown up at the Leaky Cauldron at the start of the evening, he had been entertaining naughty fantasies about Granger bent over a bed, wearing nothing _but_ those sexy red shoes. However, with the number of drinks she'd had, Draco decided the only thing Granger should be doing in her bed tonight was sleeping it off.

"Reg is here?" she asked worriedly, oblivious to the lustful thoughts dancing through his head. "Malfoy, you need to use a Sobriety Charm on me right now."

He shook his head. "Sorry, can't help you. I'm absolute pants when it comes to that particular charm. You're more likely to find yourself still drunk and with a splitting headache."

"Malfoy, please," she begged. "What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and needs me?"

"Relax, Granger," he soothed. "Reg wore himself out at the Quidditch match. He fell asleep in transit to Andy's and didn't even stir when I brought him through the Floo. I guarantee he'll sleep soundly. And if he does wake up, the two of us together amount to one sober, responsible adult."

As he hoped, that somewhat reassured her. "You're staying?" she asked.

"I'll sleep here on the couch," Draco confirmed.

"Thanks, Malfoy. I owe you." She smiled at him, rather hazily, and stretched, heedless of how that made her skirt rise up her thighs.

With an effort, Draco dragged his eyes back up to her face. "Don't you worry, I'll be sure to collect," he promised.

In an effort to distract himself, he Summoned a glass from the kitchen. "_Aguamenti_," he recited, before handing the now-full glass to Granger. "Drink it," he directed. "You'll feel better for it in the morning."

Granger obediently drained the glass, protesting only when he refilled it. "Malfoy, I can't drink this much water. I'll get sick!"

"Just sip it, then," he instructed, assessing her level of inebriation with a practiced eye. "I'll get you a hangover potion from the Manor in the morning, but you probably won't need it."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. "I really appreciate it, Malfoy."

Hesitantly, he put his arm around her, relishing the perfect fit as she snuggled against him. It hadn't escaped his notice that Granger consistently drew away whenever he touched her, even something so casual as a light tap on the arm, so he had tried hard to resist that temptation. But tonight had been different. Not only had she accepted his touch at the Leaky, she had even reciprocated, with a lovely neck and spine massage that reminded him of the many little ways she had kept him sane during his horrific sixth year at Hogwarts.

From her even breathing, he thought she had fallen asleep. After a few minutes, though, she spoke. "Malfoy?"

"Yes, Granger?"

"I have something to tell you." She raised her head and looked at him with serious brown eyes, so close that he could pick out each individual fleck of gold and amber. Draco recognized the hallmarks of an alcohol-induced confidence, and debated whether he should, as a matter of good conscience, advise Granger to hold her tongue, at least until she sobered up. Still, if it had to do with Reg . . .

"Do tell," he invited.

"I _want_ to forgive you."

He blinked in surprise. "For everything?" he hazarded, recalling just how much he had asked her to forgive.

She bit her lip, mulling it over. "I think so."

"What's stopping you?" he asked.

Rather than answering immediately, she traced the line of his cheek and jaw, the refined bone structure of the House of Black overlaying the more rugged facial features he saw repeatedly in the portraits of his Malfoy ancestors. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes to savor the feather-light caresses, his imagination offering any number of other ways she could put her slender, skilled fingers to use stroking his body. _She had too much to drink_, he reminded himself. _She'll regret it in the morning_.

"What if you turn out to be like Lucius?"

_That_ snapped his eyes open, dousing his contented mood as effectively as a bucket of icy water. Granger had evidently found some sort of wisdom in a bottle, to unerringly ask the same question that so often woke him in the middle of the night. She must have felt his jaw clench, because she recoiled slightly and removed her hand. Or perhaps some emotion darker than shock had played across his face, because Granger was now regarding him with wariness.

He sighed and gently tugged her to her feet. "Come on, _mignonne_. Let's get you to bed." While her question about his father deserved an answer, it was too late at night to drag that particular demon out into the light. She followed him docilely down the hallway, neither demanding an answer nor objecting to his steadying arm around her waist.

He stopped outside her bedroom door, not wanting to court temptation by crossing the threshold. "Goodnight, Granger," he told her, rather stiffly.

"G'night, Malfoy," she echoed, her words slightly slurred. She tipped her face up to his. "I'd like a goodnight kiss," she stated, running a fingertip along his lower lip.

Draco tensed. He would like nothing more than to accede to her request, but he could picture quite vividly how that would unfold. Granger's mouth would open under his, his tongue would tangle with hers as he pressed her back against the doorframe, and he would fist one hand in her hair while his other hand unzipped her dress and shoved it off her shoulders. After that, he would unclasp her bra and lavish her breasts with attention from his mouth and hands.

Granger probably would fumble with his belt, but he would help her. They would both push her dress and knickers down to her feet, his hands over hers, and he would deposit her, naked, in the middle of the bed and shuck off his clothes. In mere minutes, he would be thrusting between her thighs while she moaned beneath him. And it would be completely, utterly wrong to take advantage of her in that way, to once again leave her feeling in the afters that he had used her body and abused her trust.

Granger leaned into him, a pretty pout on her pink lips. "Please, Malfoy?" she prompted him, the shy glance from beneath her eyelashes at odds with her bold behavior.

"I already gave you a kiss at the Leaky," he reminded her, stalling for time.

"I know you can do better than that," she challenged.

"I can and I shall," he smirked, maneuvering her into the bedroom, "but not tonight." He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "You'll thank me in the morning, Granger," he said, stepping quickly out of the room and closing the door firmly behind him.


	11. Chapter 10: October 26, 2002

As usual, Hermione woke with the sunrise, despite her unusually late night. After burying her head under the pillow for a moment, she gave it up as a bad job and reluctantly left the warm comfort of her bed for the loo to scrub the sticky sweetness of last night's rum from her mouth.

Exiting the bathroom, she had to admit that Malfoy's non-magical methods had worked like, well, a charm. She was tired and had a mild headache, but her stomach was settled. Her recollection of last night's events was also clear enough to make her flush. As she walked down the short passageway that led from the back bedroom to the living room and kitchen, Hermione vowed to never again have more than four alcoholic drinks in one sitting, or to take advice from Luna and Ginny.

After she had confided in her friends at the tiki bar about her past and present dealings with Malfoy, Luna had continued to counsel forgiveness, claiming it would make Hermione feel lighter and keep the Nargles at bay. Ginny, always more earthy and practical, had suggested that she stop being a disgrace to Gryffindors everywhere, gather her courage in hand, and jump Malfoy's bones.

In all honesty, Hermione had to admit that the problem lay less with her friends' advice and more with her own flawed execution. Ordinarily, she would think things through (or over-analyze them to death, according to Harry and Ron) and plan accordingly, but Malfoy's unexpected presence in her home last night, along with her own lowered inhibitions, had caused her to act rashly.

First, she had blundered into the sensitive topic of Malfoy's relationship with his father with all the tact of a rampaging hippogriff. It wasn't that she feared Malfoy had inherited Lucius's abusive nature. If that were the case, she never would have entrusted Reg to Malfoy's care. No, she had observed Malfoy over the years, and even at his bullying, swaggering worst, his physical altercations at Hogwarts had been confined to boys his own size and age.

Her concern was that Malfoy would take after his father in a more subtle, insidious way. Lucius had been the ultimate Janus-faced manipulator, a brutal sociopath hiding behind the public facade of a generous philanthropist and devoted husband and father. Over the years, he had befriended, used, and ultimately turned on any number of people, including at least one former Minister of Magic and, arguably, his own family. Malfoy's personality might not swing to those extremes, but Hermione had experienced firsthand the switch between Malfoy as her first love, who had gained her trust and quite literally charmed her out of her knickers, and Malfoy as a cold, indifferent junior Death Eater, who had metaphorically kicked her to the curb after getting what he wanted and boasted about shagging her to his mask-wearing cronies.

Despite those very legitimate and unresolved trust issues, she had compounded her mortifying behavior last night by persisting in an amateurish attempt to seduce Malfoy even after it was clear he wasn't interested. He had been oblivious to her hiked-up skirt, on the verge of falling asleep when she was touching his face in what was intended to be an erotic manner, and ultimately had sent her off to bed with a kiss on the top of her head as though she were a child.

Hermione ruefully acknowledged that she hadn't the faintest idea how to go about being an assertive sex kitten, as apparently came naturally to Ginny. Her experience at Hogwarts had been limited: Viktor Krum had asked her to the Yule Ball and then Malfoy had pursued her in secret with a dark, alluring intensity. In between, her awkward adolescent crush on Ron had never gotten off the ground. She and Fred had the most give and take in their short relationship while living at the Burrow, probably because they were both reeling from the events surrounding Dumbledore's death and equally in need of comfort. After that, motherhood at eighteen had certainly crimped her style.

Resolutely, because she _was_ a mother and Reg's happiness was paramount, she decided it was time to put aside her morning-after embarrassment and continue where she had left off last night with Malfoy, at least in one respect. She needed some assurance in light of Malfoy's upbringing and past behavior that Reg wouldn't find himself abandoned like an unwanted puppy, and it hadn't escaped her that Malfoy had evaded her question last night.

Ruthlessly, she decided that her best chance of wringing an honest answer from the sneaky Slytherin was to ask again immediately upon waking him. But when she entered the living room, there was no sign of Malfoy other than a piece of parchment atop a pillow and neatly-folded blanket. Unfolding the note, she saw Malfoy's elegant handwriting scrawled across the page: _Dear Granger, I'm heading back to the Manor for a shower and a bit of a lie in. What do you say to brunch at Diagon Alley in a couple of hours? Yours, DM_.

A tapping at the kitchen window interrupted her before she could quite finish a quick reply assenting to brunch. Hermione opened the window to a familiar eagle owl, with a flask clutched in one talon and a letter in the other. The imperious bird swooped to the kitchen and perched on the back of a chair, presenting her with the letter.

_Dear Granger_, she again read, _As promised, I've sent Purus with Slug and Jiggers' premium hangover cure. Given our history, you'll be pleased to note the tamper-proof seal is intact. Yours, DM_.

As soon as she looked up, the owl extended his other talon, offering the flask. Hermione took it, opened it, and drank the minty green potion in one gulp. Instantly, her head felt better and her fatigue disappeared. She sighed gratefully. "I owe your master a thank you, even if he is a snarky prat." As she spoke, a charmed postscript appeared: _P.S. I told you that you would thank me in the morning_. Hermione laughed despite herself.

A second postscript scrolled across the parchment: _P.P.S. I hope that you weren't so far gone last night as to forget the hangover potion wasn't the only thing I promised to give you. I intend to keep my word, presuming you are still amenable in the cold light of day_. Indeed, Hermione had not forgotten Malfoy's promise of a kiss, delivered in a silky voice that had her flushed at the memory while standing in the middle of her kitchen.

Purus hooted to get her attention. "I assume you'd like a treat?" she asked, reaching for the bowl she kept on the windowsill. He ruffled his feathers and fixed her with a beady orange eye, clearly offended. "Sorry, we don't have caviar on offer. You'll have to wait until you're back at your Manor." But even as she spoke, Hermione was crossing to the refrigerator. After all, the owl had made a long, early-morning trip from Wiltshire for her benefit. "Will grilled chicken suffice?"

Apparently chicken did suffice, as the eagle owl carefully took the strip of meat from her hand. For all that Ron claimed the Malfoys trained their birds to attack Muggleborns, Purus had always been gentle with her. That made it all the more surprising when he lightly nipped her fingers with his formidable beak.

"Ow! What is it?" The eagle owl swiveled his head towards the table and her unfinished response to the brunch invitation. "I hope Malfoy appreciates what a clever familiar you are." The bird hooted softly in acknowledgment and preened as she finished the note and secured it to his leg.

When she opened the kitchen window to send him on his way,she saw the_ Daily Prophet's_ delivery owl approaching, swooping low towards her cottage. Purus hooted angrily at the interloper as he took off, making a point to buffet the smaller bird and causing the tawny owl to make a rather ungraceful landing in the sink instead of on the sill. With a baleful look at Hermione, as though she were somehow responsible for the behavior of Malfoy's familiar, the delivery owl flung the newspaper on the floor and snatched a treat from the bowl, quickly taking off again.

A rapid knocking at the cottage's front door interrupted her before she could pick up the _Prophet_ and begin a leisurely perusal of its contents over a mug of tea while Reg slept in.

"Just a minute," Hermione called. In reality, if it was who she suspected, she would prefer more time than that to prepare herself. Harry and Ginny, the Weasleys, and Andromeda all had Floo access if they needed to reach her early on a Saturday morning, while all of her other good friends were D.A. alumni who knew how to send a Patronus. While she wouldn't put it past Egbert to interrupt her weekend, he and her other work colleagues would use an owl. Unless one of her neighbors had been seized with baking fervor and needed to borrow a cup of sugar, Malfoy was standing on her front step.

Her pajamas couldn't be helped and there was no time to do anything with her hair beyond pulling it into a messy ponytail. At least she had brushed her teeth, she thought. Hermione took a few deep breaths to mentally prepare herself and shield her mind. Malfoy hadn't attempted to use Legilemency on her since his release from Azkaban, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try.

Preparations complete, she flung open the door to the expected sight of the tall blond wizard. "Hullo, Malfoy. A bit early for brunch, aren't you?"

"I take it you haven't read the paper, then?" Malfoy asked abruptly, not bothering with the niceties of a greeting.

Hermione grew uneasy as she took in his appearance. His blond hair was still damp from the shower and he was wearing unpressed khakis and a dark T-shirt instead of his usual impeccable dress. It looked as though he'd been lounging around the Manor when something he read in the _Prophet_ compelled him to fling on a jacket and shoes and immediately Apparate to see her.

"Of course you haven't read the newspaper yet," he answered his own question. "You would have greeted me with a hex instead of a hello."

"What's happened?" she demanded.

"Skeeter wrote an article about Reg," he told her, raking his fingers through his hair. That unconscious gesture of distress by the ordinarily composed Malfoy caused her own anxiety to spike. The _Prophet's_ reporting could be vicious and the truth here could be spun in a way that would be worse than any slander.

"Come in," she invited, not very graciously. "This isn't a discussion to be having on my doorstep."

X X X

Draco followed Granger to the kitchen, noting the stiff, angry set of her shoulders. Silently, he retrieved the newspaper from the floor.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, in a reflexive British reaction to crisis.

"Please. So long as you promise not to fling it in my face," Draco muttered.

"That will depend on what the article says, won't it?" Granger replied. The confiding, doe-eyed witch from last night was gone; her brown eyes were guarded again. She poured mugs for both of them and placed them on the table. She sat and he followed suit, handing over the newspaper.

"Front page, below the fold," he told her curtly. **_The Malfoy Hair?_** the headline inquired, above a photo of Draco with Reg, snapped immediately after the Falcons' Seeker had caught the Snitch. In a repeating loop, an exuberant Draco swung a tow-headed Reg onto his shoulders while both cheered in excitement. He had been so thrilled with his team's victory that he simply hadn't registered the flashbulbs going off in the direction of the owner's box.

With a completely unreadable expression, Granger pointed to Reg's hair in the photo. "Explain."

"Zabini was taking the piss. He thought it would be funny to put a blond glamor on Reg's hair."

Granger looked up from the paper to glare at him. "It didn't occur to you that it was a supremely stupid thing to do? Why didn't you change it back? Honestly, Malfoy, you and your friends need a minder more than Reg does!"

Draco narrowed his eyes at her bitchy, swotty tone. He wasn't her lap dog like Potty or the Weasel to be reprimanded in that way. "I rather liked it. It looks better on him than that ginger mop."

With another nasty look, but without another word, she turned her attention to back to the article. Draco moved his chair closer. Rita Skeeter had shared the byline with another reporter who was apparently unfamiliar to Granger, as her finger hovered over his name in print. "He's the _Prophet's_ sports editor," Draco answered her unspoken query. "I gave him an interview before the game." As Granger quickly skimmed the story, Draco read along, cringing to himself. The article hadn't improved on the second go-round.

_Draco Malfoy, the debonair owner of the Falmouth Falcons, seemed uncharacteristically expansive in a pre-game interview with our correspondent, freely sharing his goals for the team (now tied for third in the league standings following last night's victory over Puddlemere United - for more Quidditch coverage, turn to page 9) and the strategy behind last week's trade to acquire Chaser Molly Moran, a long-time stalwart on the Irish national team, from the Ballycastle Bats (again, if you care about Quidditch, turn to page 9). _

_Mr. Malfoy, recently paroled from Azkaban fortress for misdeeds committed in the service of He-Who-We-Still-Prefer-Not-To-Name, was mum, however, on the subject of the Falcons' adorable new mascot, a little boy who joined Mr. Malfoy in the owner's box to watch the game after our correspondent exited. The blond-haired, grey-eyed child, who a pediatric specialist at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries estimates to be between the ages of three years, nine months to five years old, appears to be on very close (dare we say familial?) terms with Mr. Malfoy. _

_"Very light blond hair is a hallmark of the Malfoy family, in combination with grey or light blue eyes," says Lucinda Tripe-Orpington, authoress of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Madame Tripe-Orpington noted that the hair color is dominant in the patrilineal line, meaning that any male member of the Malfoy family will have platinum blond hair, even if the mother is brunette!_

_While no formal acknowledgment of paternity has been made, a close family friend told us that Mr. Malfoy has confirmed the relationship. "Draco is tremendously proud of and fond of his son," according to our source, who also reports that the precocious little wizard is already using a wand to perform simple charms! Citing the Malfoy family's desire for privacy, our source declined to provide the child's name or identify his mother. (For a list of of witches romantically linked to Mr. Malfoy in the past, see page 6)._

_The family friend acknowledged that the situation was "irregular," but told our correspondent that Mr. Malfoy "intends to do the right thing." Could that mean wedding bells will be ringing in the near future? We now know of a little boy who would be an utterly darling ring bearer!_

"Who is the 'close family friend?' Blaise?" Granger asked, in an all-too-calm voice.

As tempting as it was to expose his promiscuous plonker of a best friend to Granger's wrath, particularly since Zabini's irresponsible spell work had precipitated this entire situation, Draco told her the truth. "Adrian Pucey. You probably don't know him. He was a few years ahead of us. He stopped by the box to say hello, saw Reg, and came to the obvious conclusion."

"Another snake?"

Draco didn't like where she was going with this, but he had to nod. "It was textbook yellow journalism. Skeeter ambushed him after the game with a provoking question about my unfitness as a parent."

"Did she really? This article casts you in a rather rosy light and your family has always enjoyed a close relationship with the _Prophet_," Granger observed, in that same dangerously quiet tone. "Trying to force my hand?"

"No!" Draco told her forcefully. "I swear to you on my magic, on my mother's life, that I had nothing to do with the article." As Granger well knew, there was no loophole in those words.

After a moment, she nodded in acceptance. "Be that as it may, the issue now is damage control. I take it you've spoken with Pucey?"

He nodded definitively. "As well as Zabini and Goyle. They all know to tell Skeeter to bugger off. "

"That's good," Granger said absently. She had turned to page six of the newspaper, where the pictures of twenty witches smiled, simpered and waved at them with a brief description underneath of their interactions with Malfoy. "Godric, Malfoy," she commented in amused disgust, "have you really been with so many women?"

He hastened to reassure her. "Please, Granger. As though I'd ever consort with a Hufflepuff," he gestured over her shoulder at the first two pictures, of Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, "Or the Weaselette," he pointed to the last photo in the _Prophet's_ montage. "Skeeter just picked every reasonably fit witch within a year or two of my age who attended Hogwarts. And she limited herself to the old wizarding families."

"Which means," he continued, "Skeeter has hold of the entirely wrong end of the wand. She left out the one witch she should have included." Granger's eyes followed the movement of his finger to the second row, where the photo of Tracey Davis was followed by that of Astoria Greengrass.

"Thank Merlin for small favors," Granger sniffed. "Still, we shouldn't underestimate Skeeter's craftiness. She didn't get to be the _Daily Prophet_'s star reporter based on her good looks."

"Really?" Draco inquired, with a wicked grin. "I heard she got there based on her skill in sucking Barney Cuffe's co-"

"Malfoy, do not finish that sentence!" Granger ordered, but he could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. Merlin, he'd forgotten how much his witch despised the Skeeter bint.

"As you wish, Granger," he obeyed, completely unrepentant. "In all seriousness, that little indiscretion is one of the reasons my father could so readily manipulate the press. The evidence passed to me, and I could demand a retraction on the strength of it. But I'm not inclined to do so."

"No, I agree," she said thoughtfully, after a moment, though he doubted her motives were the same as his. "Better to let the story die a natural death."

For just a moment, Draco felt miraculously well,as though he'd dodged an _Avada_. Despite what that Skeeter cow had written, Granger hadn't lost her temper with him. All things considered, he'd brushed through the sticky situation created by the _Prophet_'s scoop rather well. Until Granger pushed back her chair and spoke again, apologetically.

"You know this means you can't be seen with Reg."

Draco's temper had been stretched thin by a short, frustrating night's sleep on Granger's couch, followed by the aggravation of Skeeter's article. That statement snapped it.

"Sorry, princess, but we have a deal. I might have missed four years of his life because I was in _fucking_ Azkaban, but you're not going to keep me away from him any longer," he hissed at her, smacking his palm on the table for emphasis.

Granger looked taken aback. Before she could reply, Draco cut her off, scathingly. "I never thought that the wizarding world's golden girl would renege on an agreement while a Death Eater is willing to keep his promises."

He stood up and shoved away from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. "I'm off to the Ministry then. I'm sure I'll see you there soon."

"Malfoy," her conciliatory tone caught his attention, because it was so unusual. "I didn't say you couldn't see Reg. I said you can't be seen with him _in public_. Play with him here, or visit at your aunt's house as you've been doing."

He leaned against the table, eyes narrowed in thought. "I'd like to take him flying, but I suppose the park here in Godric's Hollow is off limits?" At Granger's nod, a crafty smile spread across his face.

"Fine, then we'll go to the Manor this morning." Draco was very curious to see how the Manor's many portraits would react to Reg.

"No, Malfoy. Absolutely not!" Granger's face had paled. "Reg is not visiting that _place_." She spat the last word as though his home were something vile.

Still, he reined in his anger and tried to reassure her. "There's nothing dangerous there, anymore. The Ministry did a full sweep for any Dark artifacts. Reg will be perfectly safe."

"I still have nightmares featuring your drawing room," she told him, flatly. "I can't go back there."

He too had nightmares set in the drawing room, but he didn't think sharing that would persuade her to return. "My mother redecorated all rooms in the Manor where anything . . . untoward occurred." Narcissa had spared no expense, in terms of Galleons and magic expended, in eradicating every trace of the atrocities committed in the drawing room, dining room, several of the spare bedrooms, and cellar. He'd barely recognized portions of the Manor upon his release from prison.

"Bully for her! Was it that difficult for the house elves to scrub my dirty blood off the walls and precious heirloom rug?"

Draco could understand why Granger had taken refuge in sarcasm - he often relied on the same defense mechanism - but he needed her to overcome her aversion to his ancestral home. If nothing else, she had to understand what she stood to lose if she remained intransigent.

"I want Reg to become accustomed to the Manor," he told her firmly. "You should know why." Wizarding law, when it came to the custody of children, was very clear and equitable - at least in Draco's opinion, given how it meshed with his current agenda. Absent incontrovertible proof of abuse or neglect, the Wizengamot would order joint custody, with the child alternating weeks between the parents. Draco anticipated Granger would go to any lengths, including reconciliation with him, to keep from losing Reg.

Rather than flaring up at him, Granger looked resigned and slightly sad. "You're putting the cart before the horse again, Malfoy," she sighed. "Let's please revisit the question of Reg visiting the Manor in November, if you even want him there at that point."

"Very well." He was willing to stand down on this for now. Given Granger's deflated mood, he would even let the absurdity of her last statement pass without comment. "What shall we do with Reg today, if the Manor is out?" Draco asked.

"I thought we might take him somewhere in the Muggle world. Perhaps the zoo, or there's a train museum in Swindon that he would like," Hermione suggested.

"You want to take Reg somewhere Muggle?" he echoed, wrinkling his nose in unconscious disgust. He had never been, but he'd heard a great deal from Blaise about how the Muggle world was crowded, and chaotic, and filled to the brim with expensive nightclubs and cheap slags. Zabini, needless to say, loved it.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you?" Granger demanded, suddenly angered. "You say the right things, and put on a good act, but underneath you're still the same prejudiced arsehole."

"I just don't know if it's suitable place to take a child," he protested.

"For God's sake, Malfoy, where do you think Reg was living for the last four years? In the Muggle world, with me, sharing a home with his two grandparents. Who happen to be Muggles!"

Granger looked to be winding herself up into a proper tirade, when she abruptly stopped short and looked towards the stairs. "Reg, is that you?" she called.

Draco heard a shuffling sound from the landing. "Hi, Mummy," piped a sheepish-sounding little voice.

"If you're awake, Reg, why don't you come downstairs?" While phrased as a question, Draco had no doubt it was a maternal command. Narcissa used the same trick.

Briefly, Granger dropped her head into her hands before looking back at him, concern evident on her face. "Reg tends to eavesdrop," she told him quietly. "Let me handle this, if you will. I don't know how much he overheard."

Mentally replaying their somewhat heated conversation, Draco could see why she was concerned. He agreed, but also couldn't resist needling Granger a bit. "Eavesdropping? That sort of subtle behavior doesn't strike me as something likely to crop in the the offspring of two Gryffindors."

Granger was entirely unimpressed by his remark. "Two words for you, Malfoy: Extendable Ears."

Before he could retort, Reg was in the kitchen, addressing his mother, leaning against her legs. "Mummy, are you okay?"

Quickly, while the inquisitive child's attention was focused on his mother, Draco Vanished the newspaper and turned his left forearm down against the tabletop. It was too early to field Reg's questions about the front-page photo or his Dark Mark.

"I'm okay, lovey." Granger petted his hair, still rumpled from sleep and once more reddish in color. "You know it's not polite to listen in on other people's conversations," she scolded mildly.

"I know, Mummy." Draco hid a smirk at the boy's unapologetic tone, but it disappeared with his next words. "Are you mad at Mr. Draco? Did he do something bad?"

Reg's posture was defensive, bordering on belligerent, and he had placed himself between Draco and his mother. The blond wizard's throat constricted at the sight. He had found himself in Reg's position during his own childhood, trying to protect his mother from Lucius, and it stung that Reg thought he might pose a similar threat to Granger.

"Mr. Draco didn't do anything bad this morning and I'm not mad at him. I'm just a bit . . . exasperated," Granger replied, choosing her words with care to defuse the situation.

Reg relaxed slightly and turned to Draco. "Mr. Draco, are you ex-as-per-a-ted with Mummy? And are you sad?"

"Perceptive little bloke, aren't you?" Draco murmured to himself. Behind Reg, Granger nodded in confirmation.

"Only a bit exasperated, sprog," Draco said lightly. Reg's even-handed concern had immensely improved his mood. "Your Mummy and I were just trying to come to an agreement about what you might like to do today."

"I'd like to go to the zoo," Reg announced, with an air of having solved a major problem.

"Works for me," Granger said, directing a questioning look at Draco over her son's ginger head. "Malfoy?"

"There's nothing I'd like better." She raised her eyebrows at what she perceived to be sarcasm, but Draco was sincere. He would cheerfully endure hours among Muggles and wild animals (and yes, he was aware there was a difference) if it meant he got to spend the day with Reg, bouncing slightly in excitement at the prospective outing, and Granger.


	12. Chapter 11: October 31, 2002 (Halloween)

With a crack, Hermione Apparated into a little-used alley behind the Sainsbury's in the southeastern market town where Andromeda Tonks lived. Briskly, she walked around to the front of the store, where Harry was waiting with two carrier bags, one filled with Halloween candy and the other holding two children's costumes. She peered into the first bag. "Nice selection. I doubt my parents would approve, but the kiddies will thank you."

Harry glanced at his watch and greeted her with a grin. "Right on time, 'Mione. You're getting better at persuading the goblins to unshackle you from your desk."

His curly-haired friend's smug smile verged on an outright smirk. "Egbert was very accommodating once I said the magic word."

"_Stupefy_?" Harry inquired, linking arms with her for the short walk to the Tonks residence. "Because I can't imagine a mere 'please' would work on your boss."

There was no doubt about it: Hermione was smirking. "The magic word is '_Malfoy_.' As soon as I told him he was joining us, Egbert practically shoved me out the door."

"Malfoy is coming with us?" Harry was shocked. "_Draco Malfoy_ is taking Reg and Teddy trick or treating in a Muggle neighborhood?"

"He insisted," Hermione told him, looking as though she had swallowed a rather sour flavor of Bertie Bott's beans. "Malfoy still doesn't know too much about Muggle traditions, and he was a bit concerned at the idea of Reg knocking on strangers' doors to ask for candy."

Harry shook his head, wondering if she realized the implications of Malfoy's protectiveness, no matter how unnecessary or misguided.

The two friends walked on in comfortable silence, reaching the front path leading to Andy's cheerful yellow house only a few minutes later. Hermione tapped lightly on with the dark green front door, its color a nod to the owner's pureblood roots and Slytherin house affiliation.

A smiling Andromeda opened it almost immediately. After greetings were exchanged, Hermione posed a question. "Any accidental magic today, Andy?" she asked.

Harry looked at her curiously. "You always ask that at the Burrow, too. Why is that? You already know that Reg is magical."

"Sometimes a bit too magical," Hermione replied. "We had a couple of incidents at his daycare in Perth."

Andromeda waved a dismissive hand. "It happens. I can't even tell you the number of broken plates and cups I had to explain away to Ted's side of the family when Nymphadora was growing up."

"Reg did a bit more than smashing some crockery," Hermione said drily. "The Australian ministry had to call in the Obliviators. Twice."

"Really?" asked Harry with interest. "What did he do to warrant that?"

"The first time, he was squabbling with another boy over a toy train. Reg turned it into a snake."

Harry chortled. "That's normal, Hermione! You know that Fred turned Ron's teddy bear into a giant spider when they were kids. Ron's never quite gotten over it."

"It was a death adder, Harry! The other little boy could have been killed!"

"Fred's spider was a tarantula. And I loosed a boa constrictor on my cousin when I was eleven. That snake could have done some damage, too." Harry smiled fondly at the memory. "Boys will be boys, especially little wizards."

"Yes, well, the second incident involved a little girl. He used the Langlock jinx on her when she made fun of him for not having a daddy. That's borderline Dark magic."

Harry shook his head. "You've still got one for Half-Blood Prince and his spells, Hermione. Even I'll admit that Snape wasn't all bad. Langlock also is one of the more harmless spells he came up with."

Andromeda also defended Reg. "At that age, children aren't thinking in terms of particular spells and whether they are dabbling in Light or Dark magic. They impulsively think about something they want and it just happens."

"Speaking of which," the older witch continued, leading them to the sunny playroom in the rear of her house, "Reg _did_ do some magic today. I hope you won't be too upset, Hermione. He was just imitating Teddy."

Behind the closed door to the playroom, Hermione could hear a dull roaring, interspersed with shrill cries and giggles. She and Harry exchanged a glance before he opened the door to reveal Malfoy kneeling while two little platinum-haired boys clambered over him, toy wands in hand. He stood up and swung Teddy Lupin in a circle with a mock roar, dropping him onto a chair as the boy laughed madly.

"Teddy changed his hair to match his cousin, and then Reg did the same," Andromeda explained, with a proud smile at her grandson and his abilities as a Metamorphmagus.

"My turn, my turn!" Reg yelled. Malfoy obligingly picked him up but stopped short when he saw the other adults in the doorway. He walked towards them, tossing and catching a giggling Reg on the way, before depositing him in Hermione's arms.

She pretended to stagger under his weight. "You're getting so big, Reg! Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah!" came the enthusiastic response. "We played dragon tamers! Mr. Draco was the dragon, and we chased him, and when Teddy and I catched him, he would make us fly!"

"That sounds exciting, love. When you caught Mr. Draco, how did he make you fly? On a broomstick?" Hermione questioned, setting him back down.

"No, mummy. Not a broomstick. It was a dragon flight!" Reg told her, with some impatience.

"A dragon flight is _Wingardium Leviosa _or me just swinging Reg and Teddy about," Malfoy explained in response to Hermione's inquiring look.

"Ah, I see. Did you have fun today, too, Malfoy?" she asked mockingly, taking in his unusually disheveled appearance and ruffled demeanor.

"As much fun as one can be expected to have when repeatedly lifting fifteen kilos worth of little boy and crawling around on the floor while being poked at with sticks," he responded, an amused smile belying his complaining tone.

"Poor ickle Drakie," she said with mock sympathy, earning herself a grey-eyed glare. "You must be exhausted," she added with genuine commiseration. "Teddy and Reg are quite the handful."

"You don't know the half of it, Granger. Never in my life have I been so happy to see Potter!"

Harry, hearing his name, turned away from his conversation with Andromeda and Teddy. "All right, Malfoy?" he asked.

"Potter," the blond wizard acknowledged, his cool greeting walking the fine line between civility and haughtiness. Hermione suppressed a smile. In his current disgruntled mood, Malfoy reminded her strongly of her dear, departed Crookshanks, who had always made a point of acting disdainful on the rare occasions when she caught him acting beneath his usual dignity.

"Do you like my hair, Mummy?" Reg asked, tugging at her hand with a seraphic smile.

Hermione had earlier decided to disregard Reg's bleached blond head, treating it like any other annoying but ultimately harmless attention-seeking behavior. Her son's occasional use of a swear word for shock value got the same treatment. She couldn't very well ignore a direct query, however.

"You got the color exactly right, darling," she replied, sidestepping the question of whether she liked it.

"Yes, it's just like mine," Malfoy smugly interjected.

"We'll need to change it back, Reg," Hermione told him. "You know that Batman doesn't have blond hair."

"Not yet, Mummy!"

"No, not yet," Hermione agreed in a placating way. Motherhood had taught her to pick and choose her battles, and this one wasn't worth a contest of wills with her stubborn little boy. "We'll do it after you get dressed in your costume."

"Ah, yes. The 'bat-man.' Blaise and I were picturing some sort of bizarre homage to Severus Snape," Malfoy smirked.

"Not quite, Malfoy," Harry chuckled. "Batman is a Muggle superhero, a character from comic books and movies. Though he does wear all black."

"Teddy is going as another superhero, Spider-Man," Andromeda volunteered.

"Does he wear all black, too?"

"No, red and blue!" Teddy told his cousin, shocked that the older wizard didn't know something so basic.

Malfoy shook his head in disbelief. "Muggles are strange," he muttered. "And this whole trick or treating thing seems mental to me. What if you knock on the wrong person's door? You could interrupt some Dark wizard in the middle of a revel!"

"Did that happen often in Wiltshire when you were growing up?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes at the other wizard's dramatics.

"Yes, Potter, it did," Malfoy snapped. "It's been twenty-odd years, but the Muggles still talk about the four teenagers who disappeared after they decided to explore an old, abandoned manor house on Samhain."

Hermione addressed the blond with an air of impatience. "We've been over this already, Malfoy. It's perfectly safe. We're taking the children out in a Muggle neighborhood. We'll only knock on the doors of well-lit houses. And the three of us will be with Reg and Teddy at all times!"

"Three?" Malfoy inquired with a raised eyebrow.

His aunt gave him the Black family smirk. "I'll be passing out candy from the comfort of my own home. Age has its privileges."

"Between the three of us, Malfoy, we should be able to handle any of Voldemort's remaining followers we happen to stumble across." Harry meant it as a joking compliment, but Hermione saw Malfoy's jaw clench as he bit back a nasty retort.

"Draco, why don't you and Harry get the boys ready, while Hermione and I make tea?" Andromeda suggested with a gesture at Reg and Teddy. The boys had been listening, wide-eyed. Both knew about the evil wizard who had been defeated when they were still babies, and that the adults in their lives had lost loved ones in the fight against him, but Voldemort and his Death Eaters generally were discussed only when it was thought little ears weren't listening.

"Of course, aunt," Malfoy nodded.

"Hey, Teddy, I bet you can get dressed faster than Reg. What do you say to a race?" Harry asked his godson, with a wink. Teddy nodded eagerly, while Reg gave Malfoy an expectant look.

Taking Reg by the hand, Malfoy shook his head dismissively and walked towards the door. "Always with the schoolboy rivalry, Potter." Reaching the doorway, he smirked at the still-seated Auror and hustled Reg out of the room, taking full advantage of their head start. "Game on!"

"Oi!" Harry's outraged cry followed them down the hall.

A mere five minutes later, Hermione was slicing an assortment of sandwiches for a hearty tea and enjoying a brief chat with Andromeda when Malfoy called down the stairs.

"Granger, will you get up here? Now?"

Trading a concerned look with Andromeda at the careful, cold restraint in his voice, she dropped the knife on the counter and hurried upstairs.

As she entered the spare bedroom, she half-expected to see Reg prone on the floor or bleeding from some accident. Instead, he was happily admiring himself in front of the mirror in his Batman costume, still with blond hair. Malfoy had been efficient in getting him dressed; down the hall, she could hear splashing water in the loo where Teddy was washing up with Harry's help.

"What is it, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice sharpened by worry. He drew her into the hallway.

"What are you playing at, Granger?" he hissed back.

"Malfoy, I honestly don't know what you're on about," she replied, brows knit in puzzlement.

"Look at him!" he rejoined. Hermione looked, taking in the black pants, shirt and cape. "You've dressed him up like a sodding miniature Death Eater!"

Her eyes widened in horrified recognition. "The mask is different," she pointed out weakly.

"I think," he said icily, "that I know more about Death Eater apparel than you do. Fix this, Granger!"

Hermione had spent half a lifetime ignoring Malfoy when he attempted to order her around, but the haunted look in his eyes caused her to nod in agreement.

Reg's reflection beamed at her when she walked into the room, but he was too captivated by his appearance as Batman to turn around. "I'm all ready to go trick or treating!"

She couldn't help but echo his smile, even with Malfoy stiff and disapproving at her shoulder. "Not just yet, Reg. Mummy made a bit of a mistake with your costume. You know how Uncle Ron is scared of spiders? Mr. Draco feels the same about bats. Will you let me make some changes to your costume so he isn't too frightened?"

"That is complete and utter bollocks!" Malfoy interrupted before Reg could respond. He gave Hermione a scathing look. "I'm not frightened of bats. Honestly, Granger."

He knelt down to the boy's level and gently turned him away from the mirror. "Do you remember what I told you, about how I had to go to prison because I let some bad people into a school?" Malfoy waited for the boy's nod before continuing. "Those people were Death Eaters and this is how they dressed, to intimidate." He gestured at the costume and stared intensely at Reg. "I don't want you to be associated with that. Ever. Understand?"

Hermione watched, gobsmacked, as her son nodded in solemn agreement. Never would she have anticipated that Malfoy would have been so candid with Reg about something that put him in a bad - no, terrible - light.

His silvery eyes flicked towards her. "I hope you're not upset. I hadn't planned on saying anything to Reg, but he overheard some things in Diagon Alley." Malfoy's lips compressed, making it clear he would offer no further details.

"No, I'm not upset," she shook her head.

"Can I still go trick or treating?" Reg asked plaintively.

"Of course!" Malfoy answered. "Your mum is amazing at Transfiguration. She'll have you fixed in no time."

"Flatterer," she muttered at Malfoy. "Trying to get me to do all the work?"

Hermione gave Reg's costume an appraising glance. The easiest thing would be to change colors rather than trying to Transfigure something entirely new. She smiled at the obvious solution. "Would you like to go as Superman? You already have the cape!"

With Reg's assent, she swished and swirled her wand, changing the all-black ensemble to blue, red and gold, with a stylized "S" on the chest.

"Almost done! Mr. Draco is very good with glamor charms, so he'll take care of your hair and eyes." Her pointed glance was a reminder to Malfoy that she was still a bit miffed about the stunt at the Quidditch game.

"It was Blaise, actually," he defended himself. With a negligent wave of his wand, he canceled the glamor Reg had placed on himself, grimacing as the blond hair reverted to ginger. "Best to start from a blank slate," he muttered, half to himself. "What does this Superman bloke look like?"

"Superman has bright blue eyes," Hermione informed him. "The same shade as Ron's."

Malfoy looked at her, incredulous. "This may come as a shock, Granger," he drawled, "but I haven't spent any time staring soulfully into the Weas - Weasley's eyes."

"Try a couple of shades darker than your mother's eyes."

With a flick of his wand, it was done.

Hermione examined his work with a critical eye. "Very nice," she offered.

"Hardly," Malfoy grunted. Hermione bit back a sly smile. With ginger hair and blue eyes, Reg looked as though he could be Ron's offspring. Hopefully that would underscore to Malfoy the risks of relying on what Reg looked like under a glamor as evidence of paternity.

"What color is this Superman's hair?" Malfoy demanded.

"Very dark brown, nearly black. Like Andromeda's."

Once again, Malfoy's wand work was quick and sure.

"Thanks, Mr. Draco!" Reg chirped.

"Perfect!" Hermione praised.

"Did you expect anything less?" asked Malfoy, teasingly tugging at one of her curls. "One look at this owl's nest compared to my flaxen locks and it's clear that glamor charms are one of the few areas where my magical abilities exceed yours."

"Just because you're a poncy prat who spends hours in front of the mirror trying out the latest charms from _Witch Weekly_!" Hermione bantered.

"I think Mummy's hair is very pretty," Reg said, directing a reproachful look at Malfoy. "Don't you, Mr. Draco?"

"Would you like to hear a secret?" Malfoy asked in a conspiratorial tone. He bent done to whisper, loudly, in Reg's ear, grey eyes fixed on Hermione. "I think your Mum is _very _pretty. And I love her hair."

X X X

Five was an awkward number, Hermione realized as the three adults and two boys methodically made their way through the tree-lined residential streets near Andromeda's house. Over the course of the crisp autumn evening, as dusk shifted to full dark, their little group had continually shifted in different configurations.

Initially it had been Teddy with Harry and Hermione with Reg, while Malfoy walked alone, clearly tense. Despite the obvious harmlessness of the Muggle children and their parents, Hermione could see Malfoy practically itching to pull the wand concealed in his sleeve. Reg, with the odd, open empathy particular to small children, had held out a hand to Malfoy, the one Hermione wasn't holding. They had walked three abreast for a bit, with Reg breaking off at each new house to present his bag, until Hermione - uncomfortable with how much they seemed like a family - had drifted over to Harry and his godson.

At one point, she had both boys by the hand, with Harry and Malfoy making stilted conversation. That had ended quickly, and for a time, both children had gone to Harry. She and Malfoy had followed that trio, their fingertips brushing as she answered Malfoy's low-voiced questions about the costumes that were unfamiliar to him, his caustic reaction to some of the Muggle characters making her laugh.

At present, he was walking a little ways ahead, his light-colored hair gleaming under the street lights and with a pint-size superhero clinging to each hand. The children had collected a positively obscene amount of candy; each clutched a bulging bag in the hand Malfoy wasn't holding. Given Reg's daily limit of one or two pieces, he would be eating his way through Halloween treats until Christmastime. Unless, Hermione thought wryly, Malfoy with his notorious sweet tooth continued to hang about.

She and Harry trailed behind, at enough of a distance that their low-voiced conversation would be drowned out by the boys' piping voices.

"For being such a self-absorbed prat, Malfoy is surprisingly good with kids," Harry observed.

"He does well enough with Teddy and Reg," Hermione admitted, "but I doubt Malfoy cares about children in any broader sense. Can you imagine him teaching at Hogwarts?"

Both snorted at the mental image. "He'd be worse than Snape!" Harry laughed.

"Malfoy has always had a strong sense of family," Hermione continued on a more serious note. "And he has a possessive streak." Involuntarily, her eyes flicked to the blond wizard. "I suspect Teddy is a special case because he's a cousin on the Black side, and Reg . . . Malfoy thinks that Reg is _his_."

Harry cocked his head to one side. "I think what matters to Malfoy is that Reg is _yours_," he said softly.

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You didn't hear him under the influence of Veritaserum. He was disgusted by the idea of Reg as a half-Weasley."

"Yeah, he wants to be Reg's dad," Harry agreed. "It doesn't have to be a blood relationship, though. Mr. Weasley is like my father instead of my father-in-law, and I'm trying as best I can to fill that role for Teddy."

"You're doing a great job, Harry." Hermione said sincerely. "I'm afraid, though, that blood may matter to Malfoy more than it does to you." Her mouth twisted. "It always has."

Rather than denying the obvious - after all, it had been Malfoy who had introduced them to the word "Mudblood" - Harry chose his next words with care. "I don't think you're being fair to him, Hermione. He changed after the War, maybe even before." She had been unconscious when Dobby had rescued them from Malfoy Manor, but Harry had seen the stricken look on Malfoy's face.

His emerald eyes bored into Hermione's brown ones. "Have you considered telling him the truth? He may surprise you."

Hermione's mouth was set in a mulish line. "Harry, I did tell him the truth. And his reaction was exactly what I expected."

He would have argued further, except Malfoy turned around and caught Hermione's eye. Fascinated, Harry watched their silent communication - Malfoy's dip of the chin and meaningful look towards a visibly drooping Reg, Hermione's rueful grin, and the blond's small, almost secretive, smile in response. Hermione stepped forward and took Teddy's hand, freeing Malfoy to pick Reg up, now that the boy was too tired to walk.

Shaking his head slightly, Harry wondered if Hermione recognized what an effective team she and Malfoy made. Hopefully, she would come to that realization on her own. Harry knew he would only irritate her by pointing it out, and she probably would claim that he was part of a conspiracy to get her back together with Malfoy. Which he was, but only because he wanted his best friend to be happy.

Really, after having defeated the most evil wizard in a century, how hard could it be to persuade the most stubborn witch of their age to give the blond Ferret another chance?


	13. Chapter 12: November 4, 2002

As soon as darkness fell, Draco found his mother in her wing of the Manor. Now that it was the night of the new moon, he was anxious to test the paternity potion.

He glanced at his watch. It probably would be too late tonight to confront Granger with proof that he had fathered Reg. On the other hand, there was a certain appeal in picking what might be a screaming fight with her late at night, after Reg was safely asleep, and before she left in the morning for her week-long trip to New York. That timing also would optimize his chances of make-up sex following said fight.

That possibility seemed much less remote than it had only a couple of weeks before. Ever since their chaste kiss at the Leaky, Granger had noticeably thawed towards him. She had taken the_ Prophet's _speculation about a new Malfoy heir in stride and he, in turn, had been happy to accommodate her suggestion that they spend time with Reg in Muggle London instead of Diagon Alley.

"How does this potion work?" he asked Narcissa. After steeping for the last month, the liquid was viscous and clear. At his mother's instruction, he had decanted it into half a dozen small glass vials, now standing neatly in a rack.

"It's simple. Each of the twenty-eight acknowledged pureblood families has a color associated with their bloodline." She pointed to the grimoire, open to a page displaying a multi-colored chart. Despite the obvious age of the spellbook, the colors were still vivid, preserved by magic. Draco could see the first name on the list, Abbott, written in buttercup yellow.

"When you drop a hair into the vial," his mother continued, "the color will change to indicate paternity. The secondary color identifies the mother's family. Try it," she urged.

Draco plucked a platinum hair from his head and dropped it into the first vial. The potion turned silver, the hereditary color of the Malfoys. As he rotated the stoppered glass, patterns of black, the eponymous shade of the Black family, swirled through the silver. "It's rather attractive," he remarked.

Narcissa smiled. "The best combinations are. Clearly, the potion is in good working order."

"Wait, what happens if one of the parents is Muggle-born?" Draco asked. "Will the potion still work?"

"It still works. It turns brown if the parent isn't a pure-blood." Narcissa thoughtfully tapped a manicured nail against the table. "It's probably the source of 'Mudblood' as a slur."

With a frown, Draco tried to picture what the potion would look like when his silver combined with Granger's brown. He imagined tarnished metal, which was not particularly appealing, but shrugged off the aesthetics as irrelevant. It really didn't matter what the potion looked like; Reg was living proof that he and Granger were an excellent combination.

Draco removed the first of the three curly dark red hairs his mother had taken from Reg from the parchment envelope, where they had been placed for safekeeping, and deposited it into the potion.

The results were appalling. Scarlet red mingled with brown, looking like clotted, dirty blood. Draco felt like vomiting, remembering all the blood spilled at the Manor, remembering how his own blood looked on the filthy bathroom floor after Potter slashed him open with a curse.

"The Weasley family's hereditary color is red," Narcissa stated unnecessarily, her voice devoid of any expression.

"This can't be right," Draco spat. "You do it."

With a trembling hand, Narcissa placed the second hair into a vial. The results were the same.

"Would a glamor charm affect the results?" Draco demanded of his mother.

Narcissa flinched at the harsh tone. Draco knew he was frightening her, acting like Lucius working up to one of his violent rages, and deliberately gentled his tone. "Please, mother, this can't be right. It must be that whatever glamor Granger used is interfering with the results. I _know_ Reg is my son."

She responded to the plaintive note in his voice, looking at him with sympathy. "A glamor shouldn't matter, but we can check." She pulled a long, blonde hair from her head, noticeably more golden than his own. "My hair turned white the year the Dark Lord was in residence," Narcissa explained in a whisper. "I've had to glamor it ever since."

She placed the hair in the vial, turning the clear potion an inky black, shot through with dark pink. "From your Rosier grandmother," Narcissa observed, not looking at him. His mother never could stand to see him in pain. "I'm sorry, Draco."

The inadequacy of those words cut through Draco like a knife. For more than four miserable years, he had sustained himself with the thought that regardless of everything he had fucked up, somewhere in the world there was a chance at redemption, in the form of a blond-haired, grey-eyed little boy.

"Get out," he ordered, not bothering to look up as Narcissa left. He would apologize later, once he regained control of his temper. Right now, he just wanted to hurt someone, to spread the pain he felt. But he refused to be like Lucius.

Draco picked up the fifth vial of the paternity potion and added the last of the three hairs from Reg's head. He stared at the brownish-red results. As though in a trance, he clenched his hand around the glass until it cracked under the pressure, ignoring the sting of the splinters embedded in his palm.

"Muddy blood," he whispered to himself. "Fucking muddy blood."


	14. Chapter 13: November 8, 2002

Draco had abandoned hyperbole sometime around the age of seventeen, so he would not say the last few days had been the worst in his life. But that was not to say they hadn't been miserable.

His mother had forgiven him and the house-elves had swiftly returned her workroom to good working order after he had systematically destroyed it. He had retained enough sense to take out his anger on the equipment rather than potentially volatile and dangerous potions ingredients, so no permanent harm had been done.

His mother had told him the elves had even been able to repair the vials of paternity potion that had been the trigger for his rage. Draco assumed she had since disposed of them and fervently hoped that was the case. He did not want any further reminders that Reg had been fathered by another man. The ginger hair was bad enough.

On Tuesday, Andromeda had sent her Patronus, asking Draco if he was coming over as usual. Reg was asking for him. Draco sent his owl back with apologies, saying that he was under the weather. That was all too true: he had a headache that even a potion was unable to cure and felt nauseous every time he thought about Fred Weasley with Granger. Draco promised, however, that he would see Reg the next day once he was feeling better.

A younger Draco - the spoiled, snotty little bigot he'd once been - would have broken that promise to Reg. Without a second thought, he would have turned his back on a half-blood Weasley, probably after first saying something cutting about his red hair and insulting his mother.

Later, some time after he'd taken the Dark Mark and come to realize that he needed Granger like he needed oxygen, Draco would have tolerated another man's brat for her sake. Now, after a month of being looked up to as a better person than he really was, Draco was going to try his best to live up to a little boy's expectations.

On Wednesday, he had made good on his promise, taking Reg to the Falcons game against the Cannons. His team predictably had trounced Chudley by more than a hundred points, but that victory had brought only a fleeting smile to his face.

He had glamored Reg's hair again, to avoid any awkward questions, and every glimpse of that falsely blond head felt like a punch in the gut. Even the Weasel King taking a Bludger to the face had failed to amuse as much as usual, due to Reg's concern for his Uncle Ron and Draco's sour realization that while innumerable Weasels and Harry _fucking_ Potter had the status of Reg's uncles, he was nothing more than a wizard who had a one-off with the boy's mum.

On Thursday, he met Reg at Andromeda's again and took the boy flying, relying on Muggle-repelling charms to make use of a clearing in the Forest of Dean he had visited once with Granger. The boy was coming along nicely, with his turns and loops increasingly more purposeful than wobbly, but Draco's pride in his accomplishments had dulled. Still, he persevered with his teaching, introducing Reg to the concept of catching the Quaffle without falling off the broomstick. Technically, the month-long contract requiring Granger to grant him access to Reg had expired at midnight the prior night, but she had agreed to the flying lessons and, in any case, wouldn't be back from New York until Friday to object.

Now, it was Friday and Draco was steadily working his way through a bottle of Firewhiskey. Narcissa had thrown up her hands and gone off to visit Andromeda and Teddy for the weekend, leaving him alone to sulk, as she put it. Personally, he thought a little credit was due for his restraint in waiting until darkness fell before starting in on the hard liquor. The alcohol was starting to have the desired numbing effect and he was anticipating a quiet night of drinking until he passed out.

"Nippy is very sorry to interrupt, but Harry Potter says it is urgent that he speak with Master." The house-elf bowed low as it delivered the message.

Draco quickly followed the little elf from his personal sitting room to the bedroom, the nearest room with a Floo connection. Potter's head was hovering above the grate, the greenish flames reflecting off his glasses.

"Malfoy! I'm so glad you're home. Can I come through?"

"I suppose you may," Draco offered ungraciously. After repeated meetings in Azkaban's interview room, he respected the Auror, but he still didn't like him. He had seen Draco begging for scraps of information about Granger and her son, and Draco hated that Potter knew his weakness.

Potter was already scrambling through the fireplace, brushing soot on the rug, causing Nippy to squeak in distress.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Draco asked sarcastically.

Potter ran a hand through his hair, making a bad situation worse, in Draco's humble opinion. "We were all at dinner at the Weasley's. You know, every Friday night, Mrs. Weasley makes a roast and - "

No, Draco did not know about the care and feeding of Weasels and cared even less. He cut off Potter's babbling. "Is Reg alright?"

"He's fine. That's why I'm here."

Before Draco could demand that Potter reconcile those statements, the dark-haired wizard collected himself somewhat. "Ginny's gone into labor. All of the Weasleys are heading to St. Mungo's. Can you take Reg until Hermione gets in tonight?"

Draco hesitated. Flying lessons or playing with Reg while Andromeda or Hermione remained close at hand did not qualify him to take full responsibility for a four-year-old. Besides, he wasn't the father.

"Please, Malfoy," the Auror begged. "He'll be asleep in a couple of hours. I've tried everyone else. Well, I suppose I could ask Luna . . . . "

Draco was aghast. How thick did Potter have to be to even consider entrusting a small child to Loony Lovegood?

"Alright, Potter," Draco reluctantly agreed. "But you can't bring Reg here," he stipulated.

"Why not?" Potter asked, obstinate as always.

"My family has been in a feud with the Weasley family for more than three hundred years. I'm confident there are some nasty Weasel traps in the wards and around the Manor."

Potter waved away that concern, green eyes enigmatic. "I doubt it's a problem if Reg is with you."

"I also signed a magical contract with Granger promising Reg would not visit Malfoy Manor without her permission."

"Oh," said Potter, typically eloquent and oddly crestfallen that Reg would not be coming to the Malfoy's ancestral home. "You don't want to break a magical contract with Hermione. She can be vindictive."

Draco raised an eyebrow at Potter's ability to state the obvious.

"Why don't you come through to Grimmauld Place? I'll bring Reg there," suggested the dark-haired wizard after a moment's thought.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll meet you there."

Potter's green-tinged face disappeared from the flames and Draco sent Nippy in search of a sobriety potion.

As he Floo'ed into the front parlor at Grimmauld Place, he was greeted by his Great-Aunt Walburga's portrait screeching at Potter as he Apparated into the foyer. "Filthy, half-blooded bastard! Polluter of a noble House! Your grandfather is spinning in his grave - "

Through the doorway, he watched as Potter silenced the portrait with a casual wave of his wand. Draco shook his head, wondering how a wizard as undeniably skilled as Potter could be so asinine as to accidentally trigger the vituperative portrait. Really, he could just as easily have Apparated into another room in the house.

Idly, Draco looked at the moth-eaten tapestry decorating the parlor wall, wondering if Potter's blood-prejudiced grandfather had married a daughter of the House of Black. He smirked at the line connecting Dorea Black to Charlus Potter. It was nice to know even the Chosen One had an intolerant skeleton hiding out in the family closet.

Potter poked his head into the parlor, accompanied by Reg, whose face lit up at the sight of Draco. Draco smiled at the boy and sneered at the man, purely out of habit.

"So, Potter," he snarked, "tell me about Grandfather Charlus. Did he drop dead of shock when your father brought home a Muggle-born witch? Is that why I've never heard about him in the hagiography of Saint Potter?"

Much to Draco's annoyance, the dark-haired wizard refused to be provoked. "Nah, I imagine he was thrilled. He died when I was a baby, but I know he used to work with Mr. Weasley in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Charlie Weasley is named after him, and I doubt that would be the case if Grandpa Charlus bought into that '_toujours pur_' nonsense."

"Why don't you have a seat?" Potter suggested, practically shoving a puzzled Draco onto the sofa. "Reg and I will just go and pack his pajamas. We'll be right down."

"Fine," Draco shrugged, wincing slightly. Potter hadn't yet gotten around to replacing Walburga's ugly and uncomfortable horsehair sofa.

Seated where he was, he had a direct line of sight to the Black family tapestry. As a child, legs dangling and teacup in hand, he had always enjoyed asking about the burn marks where Andromeda and Sirius had been struck off the family tree and watching Great-Aunt Walburga turn puce and splutter. Not much had changed with the ratty tapestry in the intervening years. Since his aunt Andromeda had been disowned, the tapestry failed to record the birth of her daughter or grandson. Bellatrix, thank Merlin, had never reproduced. His eyes were drawn to his branch of the family. His mother's picture was connected to Lucius by a horizontal line stitched into the fabric; a solid vertical line, in gold thread, led to his picture, denoting the birth of a pureblood heir.

_What the fuck_? Why was there a dark dotted line running down from his face on the tapestry to a small oval labeled "Issue"? He sat forward to take a closer look, noticing several such lines and ovals running from various of his progenitors' names. Whatever Black witch had woven the tapestry had made sure there would be a full record of her male relatives' indiscretions. Draco narrowed his eyes as he examined the lines of threads running from those little ovals. Most were gold - there were pure-blooded slags like Lavender Brown in every generation - but a very few were a dark brown, indicating the sullying of the Black bloodline.

Draco blinked in incomprehension. The tapestry made no sense. He had been sexually active at Hogwarts, but with four prime shagging years spent in Azkaban, he could count the number of witches he had been with on two hands and the number of Muggle-borns on exactly one finger. Perhaps one of the other witches had lied about her blood status, but Draco had always been careful, casting his own charms even when a witch like Pansy assured him that she was taking a monthly potion.

"Do you know anything about this?" he demanded as Potter returned with Reg and a small suitcase. Potter had inherited Grimmauld Place at fifteen; perhaps he had noticed when the tapestry changed to show the birth of Draco's half-blooded child. Reg was looking at the tapestry with interest; Draco hoped that Granger had not yet taught him to read.

Potter coughed a name. "Marietta Edgecombe."

As Draco tried to place it, Potter repeated his earlier statement at Malfoy Manor. "You don't want to break a magical contract with Hermione. She can be _really _vindictive."

Draco suddenly remembered the Ravenclaw witch who had been forced to wear a veil during her last two years at Hogwarts to hide the pustules on her forehead spelling the word "sneak." His eyes widened as he caught Potter's meaning. Had Granger really bound her best friend (and Merlin only knew who else) to a magical contract imposing semi-permanent disfigurement as a penalty for divulging information to Draco about his "issue"?

"So you can't tell me anything about the tapestry?" he prodded. "Or . . . ?" Subtly, he inclined his head towards Reg.

Potter prudently remained silent, but his shite-eating grin told Draco almost everything he needed to know.

"I'll just have to ask Granger myself, then, won't I?"

Once again, Potter made no answer. Instead, he handed Draco a key with a sly smile, his green eyes glinting. "I need to get to the hospital. Why don't you put Reg to sleep in his own bed and ask her when she gets home tonight?"


	15. Chapter 14: November 8-9, 2002

Hermione Apparated into her cottage's kitchen, dropping her bags on the table and shrugging off her coat and suit jacket over the back of a chair. An international Portkey was not nearly as dehydrating as a trans-Atlantic flight, but she still wanted a large, cool glass of water to wash the grit of travel out of her throat before she went to bed.

The time difference hadn't worked in her favor. It had been just past five when the last of her meetings with the New York banks had wrapped up, but back in England it was already late, far too late to pick up Reg from Harry and Ginny tonight. She still was tempted, though. While she had seen and spoken with Reg by Floo at least once every day she was gone, it was no substitute for hugging his sturdy body or petting his silky little-boy hair.

Thinking about Reg's hair set off an uncomfortable train of thought. Hermione was not used to second-guessing herself (indeed, out of all the insults thrown at her during her Hogwarts days, "insufferable know-it-all" had the most foundation), but conversations with her son during the last few days had been equally troubling and enlightening. She couldn't help but contrast his subdued demeanor before bedtime on Tuesday, after Malfoy had been "ill" and failed to show up for playtime, to Reg's happy enthusiasm on Wednesday and Thursday after his outings with "Mr. Draco."

Harry had held open the Floo connection for all of the conversations, but with Reg on the line, she had not been able to ask if Malfoy or Andromeda had said anything about the paternity potion. Based on Malfoy's absence on Tuesday, Hermione assumed the results were what she anticipated, but that assumption had been called into question by his actions later in the week.

Pensively, she sipped at her water, recalling from a couple of weeks before the contrast between cool glass and Malfoy's warm fingers wrapped around her own. With reluctance, she had to admit that Reg wasn't the only one she had missed while she was away. Malfoy had managed to slither his way back into her life, as well as her son's, in the month since his parole. Tomorrow, she resolved, she would seek him out.

Decision made, she set the now-empty glass down and looked out the window over the kitchen sink. Almost the entire village was dark and silent, with only a couple of lit windows.

"Whatever happened to constant vigilance, Granger?"

Hermione jumped and whirled around. Malfoy padded into the kitchen on bare feet from her living room, hair tousled and sleeves rolled up so that she could catch a flash of darkness against his pale forearm. His voice was husky, as though he had just woken up, but his eyes were alert and boring into her.

"M-Malfoy. What are you doing here?" she asked, steadying her voice.

He stalked closer, now between her and her wand on the kitchen table.

"The Weaselette went into labor and Potter asked me to mind Reg until you got home."

His voice was mild and Hermione relaxed fractionally. "Is she alright?"

He gave an indifferent shrug as he moved closer. "I imagine so. I haven't heard otherwise and Weasleys do excel at popping out children."

Hermione's back was now pressed against the kitchen countertop. Malfoy's proximity and vaguely predatory behavior were making her increasingly nervous. "I was planning to come and see you tomorrow," she offered.

"Were you, princess? Was there something you were going to tell me?" Malfoy was clearly skeptical, and his use of that particular endearment was never a good sign.

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded, deliberately meeting his cold silver eyes. "Yes."

"Somehow I find that difficult to believe, but since it's almost midnight, let's chat for a few minutes and then you can tell me whatever it is you have to say. Would you like to hear about my evening with Reg?"

Hermione nodded mutely. With Malfoy's arms now caging her in, it wasn't as though she had a choice.

He spoke conversationally, as though he wasn't standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body and read his lips in the dim light of the kitchen.

"I fetched Reg from Grimmauld Place and brought him here. He told me he hadn't gotten any pudding before Aunt Ginny started groaning, so I summoned a house-elf to bring warm milk and cookies. Nippy was ecstatic, Granger, absolutely ecstatic to serve 'young master.'" He mimicked the elf's excited tones. "I suppose that's why you were so adamant about keeping Reg away from the Manor?"

Malfoy continued without waiting for her answer.

"I've never put a child to bed before, but it was surprisingly easy with Nippy's help. She took care of me as a boy, and Reg is not nearly as temperamental. You have done a very nice job raising him on your own, Granger."

The compliment put Hermione even more on her guard.

"We ran into a little glitch during Reg's bath, though. He didn't like his 'yucky' henna shampoo. I promised him wouldn't have to use that kind anymore. I hope that wasn't presumptuous of me?" His voice now was thick with sarcasm.

Hermione shook her head, not quite trusting her voice to remain steady. Malfoy was holding himself in check, but was clearly furious.

"How long will it take for that damned Muggle dye to fade?" She could almost feel him vibrating with anger, fists clenched at his side, as he posed the question.

"Only a few weeks," she whispered.

"It can't be too soon," he snarled. Then he collected himself and went on, in his previous light tone. "I read him a story - actually, four stories - until he fell asleep, and then sent Nippy on one last trip back to the Manor."

He opened up his closed fist to show her two small glass vials in the palm of his hand. "I'd like to know how you pulled off this particular trick, so that you can't fool me again." Malfoy picked up the first vial and held it before her eyes.

"Is that blood?" she asked, alarmed.

"No, that's what a paternity potion looks like when you drop in a hair from a child with a Weasley father and a mother who isn't a pure-blood."

He handed her the second vial. Hermione tilted it one way and then the other, transfixed by the brilliant golden-brown patterns in the liquid silver.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Malfoy murmured. "It reminds me of amber set in silver. My mother has a scrying glass with that combination - very unusual and valuable."

"It's beautiful," Hermione told him honestly, momentarily forgetting the tension between them.

Malfoy hummed in agreement. "_That_ is the result I got with a hair I plucked from Reg's head earlier this evening." He gave her another sardonic look. "In case you were wondering, it indicates his mother is Muggle-born and his father is a Malfoy."

The gig was finally up. Hermione had no choice but to nod in confirmation. "The hairs your mother took are from little Freddy Weasley, George and Angelina's son," she confessed. "I affixed them to Reg's head with a charm. Muggles can do genetic testing with hair and I thought there might be a magical equivalent."

"And how did you manage to beat Veritaserum? Just in case I need to slip some into your morning tea."

With her admission, he now sounded more teasing than angry, and Hermione gave him a small little smirk. "It was an imprecise question. You asked if Reg was _yours_, not if he was your son. He's too much of his own personality to ever belong to either of us."

"You are a sly, deceptive little bitch," Malfoy pronounced, the words harsh but his tone very close to affectionate. He ran a finger along the fine line of her jaw, causing her to tremble in a way that had very little to do with fear. "Now that it's past midnight, what did you want to tell me?"

She stood on her tiptoes and leaned in, trusting him to support her as she whispered in his ear. "Reg _is_ your son, Draco. Forgive me, please?"

Hermione moved her mouth lower to press a kiss against his neck, feeling his pulse thudding under her lips and his hands tight on her arms.

After a moment's silence, he gently moved her away, just far enough to tilt up her chin and look into her imploring golden-brown eyes.

She met his gaze fearlessly, inviting him to search out whatever he needed. His grey eyes, shining silver in the moonlight, stared into hers.

A tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he pulled her closer, flush against him. "Let's call it even, Hermione," he suggested, the words a mere breath between them before their lips met.

It was a soft kiss, almost tentative. For a mere second, Hermione wondered if Malfoy had forgotten how to kiss while in Azkaban, until she nipped and sucked gently at his lower lip and reached up to lightly tug the hair at the nape of his neck.

It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly, she found herself bent almost painfully backwards over the countertop, with Malfoy's hard body pushing her down while he tangled a hand in her curls. In retaliation for her nip, he was kissing her forcefully, open-mouthed, their tongues battling for dominance. As usual, he won.

It had always been like this with them: foreplay mixed with one-upmanship. With a sound between a moan and a dark laugh, Malfoy ran his free hand up her thigh. But for the straight silhouette of her grey wool skirt, instead of uniform pleats, they might have been back at Hogwarts.

With a short, breathless laugh of her own, Hermione left off with the buttons of his shirt to maneuver her hand between them. There was no doubt Malfoy could physically dominate her, but he had his own vulnerabilities. Through the thick fabric of his trousers, she traced the outline of his erection and then delicately pinched the head of his cock. "Oh, fuck," he gasped against her throat, before grabbing her wrists in one hand and pinning them behind her back.

Hermione looked up at Malfoy, eyes wide and startled. Never had he done something like this.

"I believe I owe you a proper goodnight kiss, not just a hurried shag up against your countertop," he offered by way of explanation, before using the arm he had snaked behind her back to pull her up to his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers and embarked on a slow, deep, leisurely exploration of her mouth. Hermione felt like melting against him. Godric, it had far too long since she had been kissed like that.

Minutes later, but still too soon, Malfoy broke off the kiss so they could catch their breath, resting his forehead against hers. From under her eyelashes, Hermione peeked up at Malfoy's kiss-reddened lips and lust-darkened eyes and smiled slowly. "Now that I've had my goodnight kiss, will you tuck me in bed?" she asked with mock-innocence.

"Eventually," Malfoy responded with a familiar, cocky smirk, twining his fingers in hers and pulling her towards the bedroom.


	16. Chapter 15: November 9, 2002

Draco woke up suddenly, with an instinctive sense of unease cutting through what should have been a feeling of drowsy morning-after satisfaction. Reflexively, he checked for his wand. The length of hawthorne was lying within easy reach on the nearer night table, exactly where he had tossed it after casting the second contraceptive spell of the night and renewing the silencing and locking charms on the door.

Granger was still fast asleep, curled up in his arms like a trusting kitten, with her hair tickling under his chin. Draco smirked at a thought: perhaps he had been awoken by a subconscious fear of being smothered to death by those chestnut brown curls. The wards around her cottage were strong and undisturbed. Probably he was just nervy after years of living among Death Eaters and other criminals.

He stretched, feeling the sting of scratch marks along his shoulders and upper back. That slight pain vividly reminded him of Granger clawing at him, her legs wrapped around his hips as she urged him to fuck her harder and deeper. His cock twitched at the memory, and Draco wondered if the witch could be persuaded to go for a third round if he promised to take it easy on her. With both hands, he began kneading her naked breasts under the covers and flicking her nipples in a way that he knew drove her absolutely spare. As Granger stirred slightly, he dipped his head to nip at a favorite spot on her neck, already pink from his teeth the night before.

"Are you biting Mummy?" A small voice accusingly asked. A pair of grey eyes stared at him over the edge of the bed.

"Reg! How the fu-. . . er, how did you get in here?"

The boy - _his son_ - silently showed him Granger's wand, clutched in his small hand.

Somewhere, Blaise Zabini was laughing his arse off, Draco was sure.

Draco pulled the blanket up even higher, hiding virtually everything except the top of Granger's curly head from view. Last night, they had fucked the pent-up anger and resentment out of each other before tenderly making love. This morning, her skin, like his, was marked with a number of livid love bites, as well as faint bruising on her shoulders and hips. Draco had absolutely zero desire to explain rough sex to a four-year-old.

"Were you biting mummy?" Reg repeated.

"I wasn't biting your mum. I was nuzzling her."

"What are you doing in mummy's bed?" The tone was only slightly less accusing.

"I _was_ sleeping," Draco answered tartly, "until you sneaked in and woke me, that is."

"You're not allowed! Only mummies and daddies get to sleep together!" The little boy was getting angry, cheeks turning pink and hands on his hips in a clear imitation of Granger.

She was awake now, quietly watching both of them, but making no effort to intervene.

"Do you want a daddy?" Draco asked nonchalantly, despite knowing how much hinged on the answer.

Reg's lower lip trembled slightly. "I _do_ want one."

Draco felt Granger stir slightly at their son's answer and ran a soothing finger down her spine. He could handle this, in his own Slytherin way.

"Well, it just so happens that I want to keep sleeping with your mummy, so perhaps we can negotiate a deal," he drawled.

X X X

An hour later, a hot shower and coffee and eggs for breakfast had substantially improved Draco's jaundiced outlook on very early mornings. The shower had lacked a naked Granger, something he'd been anticipating, but the water pressure had at least been decent.

"I want to go to the playground," Reg demanded with an imperiousness that Draco was fairly certain came from his mother's side of the family. Certainly he had never been this bratty as a child. "I want to go flying!"

Or perhaps he had been.

"Please," Reg added belatedly, with a sidelong look at his mother.

Granger glanced at him and Draco nodded his acceptance, quickly finishing his coffee and standing up from the table to grab his coat.

Just outside the front door, he stopped to scrutinize Reg, wearing his now-favorite Falcons jacket and scarf and holding his mother's hand. "Wait just a moment," he directed, pointing his wand at the boy. With a quick swish and three words, he turned Reg's hair pale blond. This glamor would last several weeks, until the henna faded and the boy's hair returned to its natural Malfoy color. "Now you're ready."

Granger smiled at him over Reg's head. "Perhaps we can have lunch in Diagon Alley?" she suggested.

"I would love to." Draco could think of no better way to very publicly introduce his little family to the wizarding world.

He smiled back at her and took Reg's other hand as they walked out in the pale November light, their son linking them together.


	17. Epilogue: February 17, 2003

Hermione woke up in her own bed with a vague feeling of discontent, despite the now-familiar warmth of Draco against her back. She was using one of his arms as a surprisingly comfortable pillow. He had his other arm draped protectively over her, with his hand splayed over her hip.

She yawned. It had been a lovely weekend, but an exhausting one, too. On Friday afternoon, they had celebrated Reg's fifth birthday with a delicious cake baked by Molly Weasley and an elaborate sculpture of meringue and ice cream prepared by the Malfoy elves. The children had run rampant, taking turns on Reg's broom and playing with the boomerangs and other Muggle toys her parents had sent from Australia.

Hermione had cooed over little James with Ginny, while Draco and Harry had managed to converse with a minimum of snark. Draco's respect for the Auror was now substantially less grudging. Draco had even admitted to Hermione, in strictest confidence, that he was impressed by the almost-Slytherin cunning Harry had displayed in working around her strictures against revealing the truth about Reg's paternity.

After the party was over, Narcissa had taken charge of an exhausted Reg and Draco had whisked Hermione away for a romantic weekend in Paris. They had wined and dined, strolled the boulevards, taken full advantage of Reg's absence to shag six ways 'til Sunday, and then caught a Portkey home late last night.

And that was the source of Hermione's discontent. Not what had happened over the weekend, but what had _not_. Because Paris on any day, but perhaps especially Valentine's Day, was the perfect place for a proposal. There had been any number of occasions - as she and Draco had playfully fought over bites of chocolate mousse, walked holding hands along the Seine, kissed on the Eiffel Tower, lain satiated in each other's arms - that had provided excellent opportunities for Draco to ask her to marry him. But he hadn't, though more than once she'd caught the prat giving her a maddening smirk as though he knew exactly what she was waiting for.

It was an irrational insecurity, but Hermione was starting to fear she might be nothing more than "Malfoy's Muggleborn mistress," as _Witch Weekly_ had obnoxiously referred to her, until she wrote a sharp letter to the editor advising them that in modern parlance, she and Draco were partners. And while that partnership was extremely satisfying, Hermione remained a traditionalist at heart and wanted more, like her parents' happy marriage.

Oh, well. At least for now, she would try to remain content with what she had.

Draco's breathing shifted slightly. She could tell he was close to waking and deliberately rubbed her bum against his morning erection. From the way his hand tightened on her hip, she could tell it had been an effective wake-up call.

"Tease," he whispered in her ear, punctuating with a nip to the sensitive lobe. "Don't start what you can't finish."

"I won't," Hermione promised as she increased the friction, enjoying the very obvious physical effects she was causing. They had both been knackered the night before, and had gone straight to bed after arriving home, allowing her time to recover from their weekend activities. She was still slightly sore between her legs, but nothing that would keep her from enjoying a morning romp between the sheets. If anything, the sensitivity would heighten her pleasure.

"It's Monday morning, love," he reminded her, his hand on her hip now effectively stilling her.

"Egbert knew we were going away for a mini-break. He just asked me to send an owl if I got tied up," she told Draco, slightly breathless.

"Tied up?" Draco flipped her onto her back, grey eyes dark with lust. "That can be arranged," he promised in a husky voice. "I'll just have my mother take Reg over to the Manor for breakfast."

A soft knock on the bedroom door interrupted them. "Mummy, Daddy, are you back?"

"It's like summoning a bloody demon. You say his name and he appears every time! "

Though he was growling, Hermione knew Draco was more amused than irritated. He had missed their son as much as she had.

Once invited, Reg bounded into the room to hug both of them and be kissed by his mother. Then he looked expectantly at Draco. "Is it time, Daddy? Are you ready?"

Draco nodded sharply and then swallowed, throat bobbing. "As ready as I'll ever be," he muttered to himself. He opened the drawer of the adjacent night table and pulled out a small, black velvet box, handing it to Reg.

Reg carefully held the box in both hands as he walked to Hermione's side of the bed. "I've been practicing," he announced proudly as he handed the box to her.

When her fingers fumbled with the clasp, Draco reached around her and deftly flipped the box open.

"Oh, my," Hermione breathed at the sight of the intricate goblin-carved platinum ring. Rather than the gaudiness of rubies mixed with emeralds, Draco had opted to surround the large diamond with sapphires, amethysts, and moonstones - her favorite colors and all of their birthstones, too!

Gently, Draco tugged her around to face him on their bed. "Hermione, I realize I'm doing this in the wrong order, but will you marry me, share your life with me, and bear my child or, Merlin willing, children?"

While she now typically used Malfoy's surname only when he had irked her, Draco used her given name only in the most intimate moments. She stared into his quicksilver eyes and realized she had never seen them so transparent with need and love.

"Mummy, please say 'yes!'" Reg implored before she could formulate an answer.

"Say 'yes,'" Draco urged in a low voice, pleading evident in the grey eyes locked on hers. "Say you'll marry me, Hermione."

With a radiant smile, she uttered a soft, heartfelt reply. "Yes, I will!"


End file.
